


until your father's at the table

by the_one_that_fell



Series: three words that became hard to say [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Getting Together, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-01 14:44:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10923978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_one_that_fell/pseuds/the_one_that_fell
Summary: Ten years after Samwell, Eric Bittle runs into Jack Zimmermann in a sports bar in Boston and rediscovers the most important relationship of his life.





	1. part i

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in an AU where Jack and Bitty never got together and eventually drifted apart. 
> 
> TW: so much food talk guys, not-totally-supportive parents, mild homophobia, discussions of unhealthy relationships, mentions of almost drowning
> 
> It feels like I'm picking on Shitty a little in this fic and I am. Someone had to suffer, so I went with my most obnoxious son :)

 

Idly, Eric wondered if he should start using less creamer in his coffee. 

His metabolism wasn't what it used to be, and as he got busier his trips to the gym grew shorter. Maybe Eric could be a black coffee kind of guy, really learn to appreciate brews and blends like the foodie he pretended to be. He took a sip, no cream, and gagged. 

Ford laughed. “This isn't some fair-trade, cruelty-free, duty-free, airy fairy boutique café, Bitty. It's Dunkin’. Don't hurt yourself.” 

Eric sighed. Ford was one of the few people in his life who still called him Bitty, and it always made him a bit nostalgic for kegsters and roadies and late nights telling stories on the roof of the Haus. 

“Connor keeps telling me I need to be healthier,” Eric said, deciding to only dump a  _ littl _ e bit of creamer into his cup. “He's on some new paleo, ketogenic, happiness-free whatever diet, bless his vain little heart.” 

“Look, I love Connor, the kid’s a hoot,” Ford said, sipping on her flavor-of-the-month latte. “But he's kind of an asshole. Don't let him make you feel bad for making your cheap-ass coffee palatable.” 

“He's  _ right _ , though,” Eric whined. “I'm getting pudgy. I've eaten frozen burritos for breakfast the past three months. I got winded running two miles last week.” 

Ford rolled her eyes. “You sound like Marcus after he stopped playing football. I'm not saying you shouldn't get back into shape if you want to, just don't let Connor be a dick to you. The kid’s as dumb as a sack of rocks and you don't make him feel bad for thinking that Alaska’s an island.” 

“Lord, I forgot about that,” Eric said with a chuckle. “At least he's a tidy roommate. Carly was such a nightmare, I'm so happy her cheeto-stained boyfriend proposed.” 

Ford shuddered. “I remember him, he was creepy. And always smelled like bleach, which, like — red flag, Carly, he's clearly a serial killer.” 

Eric had never expected Ford to be the friend he kept up with after Samwell, but he was so grateful for their weekly coffee dates. She didn't live far from him, working downtown at an arts foundation for kids and teens in low-income neighborhoods. It wasn't the glamorous theater life she'd imagined as a Frog back in school, but Ford seemed to love her work most days. She was in many ways still the bright-eyed, bushy-tailed teenager Eric had first met so many years ago. 

“I hope she's still alive,” Eric said with a laugh. “Even if she never took out the garbage.” 

Ford laughed and they lapsed into momentary silence. Then, she made a small noise around the lip of her cup and waved a hand at Eric. “Did you hear about Jack?” 

For a moment he thought Ford meant Jack Mangione, his ex, but realized she'd never met the guy, meaning she was talking about-

“He was traded to Boston!” She shouted, pulling up an article on her phone and shoving it across the table. “Just heard this morning. Our favorite famous Wellie’s coming back home!” 

A thousand emotions flitted through Eric’s mind. There was excitement, of course, mostly at the reminder that he was sort of friends with an NHL player; anxiety at what this meant for Jack’s career, if this was good or bad or uncertain; sadness that Jack would be leaving his friends in Montreal; and hope...hope that maybe they could reconnect after years of virtual silence.

“Wow,” he breathed, skimming through the article. “Jack’s a Bruin now, huh?” 

“Yup!” Ford said. “You should try and get us tickets.” 

Eric chuckled and handed back the phone. “Yeah, me and every other member of the Samwell hockey team  _ ever _ . Gosh, I haven't seen Jack in person in, like, five years.” 

“Ugh, I know, it's been forever since I talked to Tango,” Ford said with a long-suffering sigh. “He was always so bad at texting, but it's really hit a new low since he moved to the  _ tech capital of the country _ .”

“Straight boys,” Eric said, rolling his eyes. “Can't live with ‘em, can't get ‘em to answer your texts. Useless.” 

“I hear that,” Ford muttered. “So, tell me about this week’s videos. Did you get that interview?”

Eric launched into a rant about older chefs and their apparent lack of manners or punctuality, and any lingering thoughts of Jack Zimmermann were pushed from his head. 

* * *

 

One of the perks of being self-employed was the fact that Eric could go to the gym after the morning rush. He’d taken to swimming in recent months — partly because his bad ankle was acting up again, partly because the pool was heated — and on mornings like this, when he arrived just as all the men and women in their work clothes were scurrying out the door, he had the whole thing to himself. 

There were days Eric missed being part of a team. He’d tried to join a beer league when he first moved to Boston, but the men were older and intense about hockey in all the wrong ways. There would never be a group of guys quite like the Samwell team, so Eric hung up his pads and skates and let his memories of the sport stay golden and happy. 

Going to the gym wasn’t as fun without Ransom and Holster dancing by the weights, or Chowder racing him on the treadmills, or even Lardo wandering in just to call them weak and leave. Eric sometimes went with Connor on the weekends, but Connor couldn’t spot to save his life and mostly spent his time on the elliptical, barely breaking a sweat. 

Swimming, though, swimming was something Eric loved to do alone. Pushing himself through the water, faster and faster until he couldn’t gulp in air quick enough — it was like ice skating had been as a child, empowering, freeing. Maybe if he’d picked up swimming instead of skates, things would’ve been a little easier, but Eric tried not to regret the past. His gym had a pool, not a rink, so now he pushed himself through the water a couple times a week to keep his heart healthy and his mind quiet. 

When he was done, on days like this where he was alone in the muggy room, Eric would float on his back as he caught his breath, staring up at the nondescript ceiling. Then, as soon as his panting slowed, he would take a deep breath and sink to the bottom of the lane, blowing out bubbles until he hit the bottom. 

There was something comforting in the rush of pressure on all sides, the total constriction and the warping of the lights above. The world under the water was silent and heavy and tangible in a way that made the isolation feel less lonely. 

When he closed his eyes, Eric could hear his mother’s voice, faint and distorted.  _ Dicky! Dicky! You’re okay! My boy, you’re okay… _

Then the ache in his chest would be too much, and he’d surface, breaking the spell, the memory. He’d swim to the ladder, still just Eric Bittle, a 30-year-old YouTube personality living far from home, and hoist himself to the edge, ready to take on another day.

 

* * *

 

“Jen, you better be fucking right about these fucking sliders,” Austin said. “I cancelled a Grindr date for this ‘culinary adventure.’”

“No, you cancelled because Eric pointed out that you were clearly being catfished,” Jen said indignantly. “And these sliders will be fucking magnificent, so shut your big ass mouth.” 

Jen was Eric’s favorite roommate. She'd rowed competitively at the University of Texas in undergrad, which had given her big muscles, a bigger personality, and the biggest appetite Eric had ever known. She could be loud and crude, but no one else in their apartment appreciated Eric’s baking like Jen Alvarez. 

“Did they really have to be at a  _ sports bar _ , though?” Pete asked with a small whine. “I feel like someone’s gonna beat me up and take my lunch money.” 

Monica snorted. “Don't worry, me and Jen’ll protect you from the straight people.” 

“Thanks, babe,” Pete said drily. Eric rolled his eyes. 

“I'm gonna get another beer,” he said, standing. “Gonna need it if I'm gonna listen to Pete’s bellyachin’ all night. Y'all need anything?”

After a chorus of no’s, Eric sauntered up to the bar to put another porter on the tab. 

“Bittle?” 

Eric looked up, surprised, into two familiar, stunningly blue eyes. 

“Oh my gosh! Jack!” Eric cried. “Long time no see! How are you?” 

Jack let himself get pulled into a quick, somewhat awkward hug, and Eric was relieved to see Jack was smiling as he pulled away. 

“I'm, uh, good. Out with some of the new teammates, welcoming me to Boston. How are you? Shitty says you've been really successful on the internet, I'm sorry I haven't tried to Google you yet.” 

“Oh, psh, not a big deal,” Bitty said, waving a hand. He turned to grab his beer, but only for something to do with his hands. “Ford tells me you've been having quite the run of things these past few years, Mr. Stanley Cup Winner.” 

Jack shrugged. “Yeah, uh. Things have been good. It's a bit weird, being back in the Boston area, getting used to a new team. But the guys seem pretty cool and the Bruins are really established here...but enough about hockey. I want to hear about your internet...blog?” 

Eric gave a dramatic gasp, throwing his hand over his heart. “‘Enough about hockey?’ Those are words I never thought you'd say!” 

Someone behind Eric pushed past him to get to the bar, so Jack took his elbow and steered him further down to two open stools. Jack seemed to be nursing a club soda, though Eric supposed it could've been a gin and tonic, but Jack’s eyes were clear and focused and the loud group of athletic men in the back of the bar were clearly...very inebriated. 

“I'm serious,” Jack said. “You know what I do all day — I want to hear about your job. Unless- I'm sorry, you're here with people, I'm taking you away from them-” 

“Oh, don't worry about it,” Eric said. “It's just a typical Friday night for us, nothing special. It's not every day I run into my former captain slash famous athlete all willy-nilly.” 

Jack ducked his head, looking embarrassed. “I'm sorry I never answered your text. Things were kind of hectic that week.” 

The day after Eric had learned Jack was being traded, he'd sent out a quick  _ welcome to the neighborhood :) _ text to the number he assumed was still Jack’s. He hadn't heard back, but he really hadn't expected to either. 

“Oh, Jack, it's fine,” Eric said, sipping on his beer. “It's not like you and I really stayed in touch. If I was  _ Shitty _ — well, I'm sure he would've been heartbroken.” 

Eric really only assumed Jack and Shitty had stayed close friends after Samwell. He saw pictures of them on Instagram from time to time, but Shitty had fallen out of touch with pretty much all of the Samwell crew by the time he'd graduated law school. Eric really only got birthday texts and Facebook messages from most of them anymore. 

“Ha ha, yeah.” Jack stared down into his soda for a moment, then looked back up at Eric. 

His eyes were still as beautiful as they had been ten years ago, but Jack himself was no longer the heartbreakingly handsome man he'd been when they'd been friends. His hairline was receding, just enough to make him look like his father, and there were bags under his eyes that spoke more of age and genetics than exhaustion. There were laughter lines around his mouth and eyes that softened his stern expression, but something in his posture and his build seemed rough and weary. Eric supposed this was the body of an aging athlete; Jack was probably being worn down at a faster rate than someone like Eric. 

“So I run a vlog,” Eric said after a moment of silence. “On YouTube. It's a mixture of cooking tutorials, interviews with chefs, bakers, sommeliers, bartenders, you name it, and just general life advice sprinkled in. It's not an NHL salary,” he teased, nudging at Jack’s arm. “But it pays enough for it to be my full-time gig, which is all I've ever wanted. I spend my days writing, recording, researching, editing, and baking — so much baking. It's stressful, at times, how tenuous it all seems,” he admitted with a shrug. “But I love it.” 

“That's great,” Jack said genuinely. “I'm really happy you found a job that encompasses your two greatest strengths — baking and talking.” 

Eric gasped and started laughing. “Oh,  _ Lord _ ,” he breathed. “I forgot what it's like to be  _ chirped _ by Jack Zimmermann! You forgot social media, Jack, I spend  _ even more time  _ on Twitter than I did in school.”

“Is that possible?” Jack asked with a smirk. “Do you sleep at all?” 

Eric slapped his arm and laughed again, snorting a little. “Not enough, I assure you.” 

Someone cleared their throats behind him and Eric turned to see Jen giving him a knowing look, a plate of sliders and fries in her hands. “We’re heading to Barbarella’s,” she said, handing him the food. “Gonna go get our dance on. You gonna stay here or is your new friend coming with?” 

Jack looked suddenly uncomfortable, like he'd remembered he'd pulled Eric away from friends, but Eric simply took the plate and said, “Old friend, actually, and I'm  _ starving _ so I'm gonna stay here and eat the tiny burgers you insisted on trying. Text me if y'all move on from Barbs.” 

“Will do,” Jen said, winking at him. “Nice to meet you, Old Friend. Have him home by ten.”

“Here, split these with me,” Eric said, shoving half a slider into his mouth. It has gone a bit cold but the salt and grease made up for it. “Mm, these are good.” 

“Learned to get more protein in your diet, I see,” Jack said around a mouthful of fries. He looked  _ all too pleased _ with himself over the joke, so Eric lightly kicked his shin. 

“If you don't stop chirping me I'll walk straight over to your new Bruins buddies and tell them about the time Shitty locked you out on the roof in your underwear.” 

Jack laughed, snatching up one of the sliders. “So do you keep up with guys much anymore? I feel bad not knowing what's up with any of them these days.” 

Bitty hummed into his beer. “I don't talk to most of them anymore, except Ford and Chowder. Lards and I send emails every now and then, and Ransom snapchats me pretty constantly, but I haven't seen most of them in years. Holster got divorced, did you hear?” 

Jack’s eyes widened. “No, I hadn't. I remember the wedding, I missed it for playoffs. How long did it last?”

Eric grimaced. “A year. And the divorce was messy, a lot of pent-up emotions on both sides. Nearly sent Ransom over the edge, between that and finishing up med school.”

“Yikes,” Jack said, finger tapping on the edge of the plate. “I'm sorry he had to go through that — both of them.” 

“Yeah, well, he's the genius who got married right out of college,” Eric said a little too harshly. “To a woman he'd been dating five months.” 

“Still,” Jack said. He paused, shoving a few fries into his mouth, then asked, “So how's your love life going? Did I just miss out on meeting a Bittle boyfriend?” 

Eric rolled his eyes. “No, you did not. I'm enjoying the single life, where only former teammates can steal my fries.”

With a grin, Jack grabbed a handful of fries from Eric’s side of the plate. “Well, if you insist.”

“Hardy-har,” Eric deadpanned. “So, what about you? Is there a future Mrs. Zimmermann in the picture?” 

Jack snorted. “No. I've dated here and there, but before winning the cup my time was pretty...dedicated.” 

“So what you're saying is you haven't changed a bit,” Eric teased. “You're still the cranky bastard who made me practice checking at four in the morning.” 

Jack laughed. “Just older and crankier.” 

“You don't  _ seem  _ all that cranky to me,” Eric said softly. “But  _ boy _ are you an old man. You're gettin’ closer to forty with every passing day.”

Jack scowled. “Don't remind me. And I'm not  _ that _ old. 36 isn't ancient.” 

“How are you even awake this late?” Eric asked. “Did they lift the curfew at the old folks home?” 

“I see you still think you're funny,” Jack mumbled. Eric laughed. 

“Only because it's true.” He finished off the last slider on the plate hungrily, licking a bit of mustard from his thumb. “Gosh, maybe I should try and interview the cook here, those were great.” 

“Have you been to Fran’s yet?” Jack asked. “My dad used to take me there when he'd visit Samwell. Best burgers in the state.” 

“No, you said it's called Fran’s?” Eric asked, pulling out his phone. “Like Fran Drescher?” 

“I don't know who that is but yeah, Fran’s. Little hole-in-wall, great fries. We should get lunch there sometime.” 

Eric couldn't help but beam at Jack. “I’d love to. You free next week?” 

“I'll have to look at my schedule but I'm sure I have a lunch open somewhere,” Jack said, looking almost bashful. 

“Perfect,” Eric said, snatching the last of the fries from Jack’s side of the plate. 

* * *

 

One of Eric’s earliest memories was of nearly drowning. 

In retrospect, he probably hadn’t been that close to dying; the water park had lifeguards everywhere, including the one who’d scooped him out from under the chain of innertubes. But he’d always remember the sudden panic when he couldn’t surface, the water rushing into his lungs as he tried to breathe. He could still taste the chlorine that had burned his stomach and his throat as he coughed it up on the side of the lazy river.

What Eric remembered most vividly, though, was his mother crying. 

He hadn’t understood why she was crying, screaming, hugging him so tightly. He was fine — in pain and scared but  _ fine _ . People cried when things  _ weren’t _ fine. 

“You’re okay,” she kept saying. “I was so worried, so scared.” 

Those tears of relief haunted Eric as he grew older. There were so few people in his life whose safety would bring him to hysterics of  _ relief _ . That meant something. That was a special kind of love, the kind that never, ever died. 

It was the kind of love Eric sought after despite feeling so unloveable at times. It was the kind he poured from himself into others. And it was the kind that, in the end, always hurt him. 

 

* * *

 

Weekly lunches with Jack quickly became as important a routine in Eric’s life as his coffees with Ford. 

Though he was still a professional athlete, Jack didn't harp on Eric about nutrition the way Connor did, nor did he seem to look down on him for not keeping up with his fitness. When Eric once made a self-deprecating joke about all the weight he'd gained since college, Jack shrugged and said he'd always been concerned with how thin Eric had been, hence the protein chirps. 

“You really cared,” Eric deadpanned in response. “My hero.” 

Even as the season got busier for Jack, he tried to get lunch with Eric any chance he could. This week they were at an Ethiopian restaurant at which Eric was due to record an interview the following month, gorging themselves on an absolute feast of keyi miser and doro wott. 

“You hear about Shitty and Kelly?” Jack asked as he ripped off a large piece of the injera. 

“Mhmm, got the announcement last week,” Eric said. “I wonder what kind of dessert they have here.” 

Jack frowned as he scooped up chicken with his bread. “You don't sound excited.” 

Eric sighed. Shitty and Lardo had broken up years ago, and he  _ knew  _ they were friends again, but a part of him had always resented Shitty for the things he'd said after. 

 

_ “It's my fault things didn't work out,” Shitty mumbled, crushing the empty beer can in his hand.  _

_ They were sprawled out on the floor of Shitty’s nasty apartment in Cambridge. Somehow Ransom and Holster had gotten dibs on consoling Lardo post-breakup, and Jack had been playing a game across the country, so Shitty duty had fallen to Bitty. He didn't mind — Shitty was one of his best friends — but a drunk and upset Lardo wasn't quite as prone to weird confessions or losing her clothes as a drunk and upset Shitty.  _

_ “How so?” Bitty asked, not touching his own beer. “Lardo made it sound pretty mutual.”  _

_ “She's being nice about it,” Shitty moaned. “I was selfish in my love, Bits. I asked so much from her and gave so little. I thought the most important things a boyfriend could do were make sure his lady got off first and never, ever felt uncherished, but  _ fuck _ man. I didn't even know she’d applied to that fellowship. Didn't know she wasn't feeling graphic design anymore. When was the last time I asked her about her day? When did I stop being interested in her life? This is on me, 100%.” _

_ Bitty didn't say anything for a minute, hoping that maybe Shitty would have answers for himself. When Shitty fell silent, Bitty asked, “I don't know. Why wouldn't you ask her about her day? That's a pretty common topic of conversation between coworkers and strangers on the bus. Seems like something that should come pretty naturally when talking to your best friend.”  _

_ He knew he was being harsh, but Shitty had been pathetically rolling around on the floor for hours now and Bitty was at the end of his rope.  _

_ Shitty didn't seem to notice his anger. “I don't know, man. I guess I'd just get excited about telling her about my day and then things would move on from there. I should've made an effort. I should've realized.” _

Yeah,  _ Bitty thought.  _ You really should have.  _ But he said nothing, just pulled out a trash can when Shitty’s face turned green and prepared water and Advil for what would be a justifiably terrible hangover in the morning.  _

 

“I just don't think Shitty was cut out for marriage,” he finally said, nibbling on his own scoopful of lentils. “But I'm just being negative, he's probably grown a lot the past few years.”

_ “ _ He really loves Kelly,” Jack said after chewing for a moment. 

Eric shrugged. “That's not always enough in marriage. But don't listen to me, I'm being such a Debbie Downer. I'm happy for him.” 

Jack gave him a thoughtful look but dropped the conversation. They ate in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, letting the Mom and Pop ambience of the crowded little restaurant wash over them. 

Finally, Jack took a swig of his water and asked, “So, how’s Will?” He must've seen the grimace Eric had tried to suppress, because he simply laughed and said, “I missed a lot on my last roadie, eh?” 

Eric sighed and wiped at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “Yeah, I broke up with him. He was...we were looking for different things.” 

“And what are you looking for?”

Ten years ago, Jack asking little, sophomore Bitty that question would've sent him into cardiac arrest. Now, it just made Eric sigh. 

“Unselfish love,” he finally said. “But I just don't think that exists in romance. When it comes to sex and gooey feelings, humans are as selfish as it comes. I want the kind of love that makes someone cry in relief when you don't drown at a water park. And Will wanted...he wanted someone who would laugh at all his stories and agree that his mother is a horrid bitch and constantly validate all of his life choices. He wanted to take and take and give nothing back. And in my experiences, that's all romance is — a winner-takes-all rat race.” 

Eric knew he'd said too much the moment he finished. Cheeks burning with embarrassment, he snapped his mouth closed and picked at the edge of his injera, dragging his nail through the spongy flatbread to avoid Jack’s shocked stare. 

“Um,” Jack said. “I'm sorry you guys didn't work out. He...sounds like a massive dick, to be honest.” 

Eric shrugged. “He could be sweet, but he never thought about my needs —  _ emotional _ needs, do  _ not  _ make whatever lewd joke I know you're thinking.” 

Jack ducked his head and grinned. “I wasn't thinking of any until you said that.” 

“You are a nasty old man,” Eric huffed. “Why are we friends?” 

“Aren't you using me for my fame and fortune?” Jack asked with a blank look. Eric snorted into his coffee. 

“Oh, that's right,” he muttered. “I'm just waiting for the day you use your name to get me VIP passes to meet Beyoncé. Once that happens, friendship  _ over. _ ” 

“I guess I know what to get you for your birthday this year,” Jack teased. Then, more seriously, he added, “I hope you find what you're looking for, Bittle. You deserve that kind of love.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Eric said, soft and surprised. He took a bite of chicken, then smirked. “So, a little birdy told me you had a  _ date _ last night.” 

Jack groaned. “I regret  _ ever _ introducing you to the guys.” 

“No, you don't,” Eric said primly. “In the immortal words of our newly betrothed Mr. Knight —  _ deets, Jacques Laurent. _ ” 

 

* * *

Her name was Sarah and, though very quiet and a bit plain, she instantly won Eric over. Sarah was a mousy little thing, shy and reserved, but when she spoke her voice was confident and when she smiled the entire room lit up. 

Eric insisted on meeting her after she accompanied Jack to a charity event, declaring that if she was official enough to take to a Bruins event she was official enough to join them on one of their lunches. 

Like Jack, Sarah was the kind of person who let Eric run the conversation, happy to nod and laugh and gasp as necessary. He found he had to prod her a little more for answers to questions than he did with Jack, but he also had broken the ice with Jack a decade ago in far different circumstances. 

“So, Jack tells me you work in programming,” Eric said, spearing a bite of salad onto his fork. “That's so impressive, I can barely fix my wifi when it goes out.” 

Sarah nodded, smile embarrassed. “Yes, I work at a small software company. We specialize in highly customized databases, like for hospitals or big companies. It's not the most glamorous tech job but I like it.”

“You must be so smart,” Eric said with a warm smile. “I bet all the grandmas in your building ask you for computer help.”

Sarah gave a surprised laugh. “They  _ do.  _ And they always want to set me up with their grandsons as a thank you.” 

“Ooh, guess you'll have to be turning down all those offers now,” Eric teased, winking at Jack. “Unless Chris Evans’ grandma lives in your building. Then you should upgrade.” 

“Thanks, Bittle,” Jack said, resting his arm across the back of Sarah’s chair. 

“Jack said you two met at Samwell,” Sarah said after a moment, cutting her BLT halves into quarters. “What was Jack like in college?”

“Oh, Sarah,” Eric began, reaching out to touch her hand. “The stories I could tell you.” 

“Trying to sabotage me?” Jack asked with a playful scowl. 

“Jack was a serious grump, much as he is now,” Eric said with a smirk. “And he absolutely hated me my freshman year on the team.” 

“I didn't  _ hate _ you,” Jack protested. 

“Well, you certainly acted like it,” Eric shot back. “But he coached me through a serious hangup I had with checking, even when he wanted me off the team, and always went out of his way to check on the team. He was a big ol’ nerd, too. Massive dweeb.” 

Jack rolled his eyes. “Not waiting until the last minute to start a paper isn't being a dweeb, Bittle, it's being a good student.” 

“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to, Mr. Zimmermann,” Eric said with a wave of his hand. 

Sarah laughed, looking more at ease than she had all meal. “You two must've been close, huh?” 

This threw Eric for a loop. In many ways, they had been close. But they'd lost touch so easily, Eric had always assumed they hadn't been as good of friends as he'd thought. 

“Yeah, Bittle was one of my best friends at Samwell,” Jack said. “I always regretted falling out of touch with him.” 

“Well, it seems fate wanted us to reconnect,” Eric said warmly. “And now it's brought this lovely lady into  _ my _ life. Sarah, you  _ must _ try the sorbet here, it's heavenly.” 

Sarah beamed at him, and Jack looked so content that Eric’s whole body felt like it would float away. 

 

* * *

 

Eric hadn't spoken to his mother in weeks. He hadn't spoken to Coach since Christmas, but that was to be expected. 

Coming out had been neither a huge ordeal nor easy and painless. Mama, bless her heart, had...well, Eric was loath to use the word “tried,” as he felt she hadn't tried that hard, but she'd attempted to seem supportive of his “lifestyle choices.” Coach hadn't tried at all, but he'd never tried at anything in Eric’s life to begin with and he hadn't yelled or hit anyone or even disputed Eric’s sexuality, so Eric had considered that the bigger win. 

Over time, though, Eric saw how coming out had taken its toll on Mama. She stopped asking about his love life, stopped teasing him about grandbabies. When Eric’s cousin, Christina, got engaged right out of undergrad, Mama grew quieter and more withdrawn, and even missed a few of their scheduled Skype calls. 

To his credit, Coach never seemed to blame Eric the one time Eric called to ask if Mama was feeling okay. He simply said Suzanne was being overdramatic as always and that women were emotional creatures who'd rather moan about their problem than get up and fix them. This explanation hadn't actually made Eric feel better, but at least he hadn't gotten a lecture on how his sinful lifestyle was the direct cause of his mother’s depression. 

Not for the first time, Eric wished he had a brother, one who could've been the big, strong, straight quarterback his small-town, junior-high-sweetheart parents desperately wanted and Eric could've been the black sheep in peace. He missed his mother, and he thought that maybe if she still had a son who'd marry a pretty girl and have lots of babies and a house and all the debt and stress surrounding that — maybe then, she'd still have room in her heart for a son like Eric. 

Once in a blue moon, Eric got emails from people back home. The ones from his cousins were usually okay, genuine enquiries into his foreign, northern life. The ones from older relatives, ladies from church, Coach’s fishing buddies...those tended to be a bit more unpredictable. Sometimes they were kind, sometimes they were bigotry disguised as kindness. Sometimes they were just hateful, and those were ones Eric took pleasure in marking as spam. 

Eric thought about that day at the water park more and more as he grew older. How could a woman who cried herself silly in relief give up her only son so easily? In his darkest moments, Eric imagined his own funeral. In the dark of his room, after a few too many drinks or maybe not enough, Eric would envision his mother dressed in black, wailing over his body like a widow in a soap opera. He never cared to think how Coach would react — he wasn't sure Coach even had the ability to cry. If he died she’d regret the way she was slowly scrubbing him from her life. If he died she’d never cry in relief over him again. 

It was morbid — frighteningly so — and when those thoughts came around Eric threw himself into work to keep his mind busy. Sometimes he would scroll through the analytics of his blog, searching for the little “Morgan County” hit that might be his mother checking in on him. Mostly, though, he was certain it was Moomaw, who, at 98, was an iPad whiz and the most supportive member of his entire family. 

(He was also almost certain she didn't know he was gay and that she thought Reagan was still president. But she always left comments on his videos and blogs and sometimes even tweeted at him. And that was enough for Eric.)

“My mom says hi,” Jack said in lieu of a greeting at lunch one week in September. “I just got off the phone with her. Said to tell you your last video was a lifesaver and if you ever get bored of YouTube, she'd love to hire you as a personal chef.” 

This completely threw Eric. He'd met Alicia Zimmermann once or twice in his time at Samwell, but he had no idea she even knew about his career. “Oh! Um, well, tell her thank you but I would actually freeze to death in Montreal. But if she ever moves to California, I'm in.” 

Jack grinned. “You can take the man out of Georgia…” 

“But you cannot convince him humans were designed to live in an arctic wasteland like Canada,” Eric finished. “Or Massachusetts, really, but I suppose it has its perks.” 

“She'll be crushed,” Jack said. The waiter came over before Eric could respond, taking their drink and food orders in one go. It was a cheap little place, boasting the best chicken mole in the city, and Eric could tell from the divine smells of restaurant alone that he'd be contacting them for an interview in the near future. 

“I didn’t know your mama watched my videos,” Eric said after the waiter left. “That’s so cool, she’s  _ famous _ .” 

Jack shrugged. “Yeah, she’s been watching them since she saw some Buzzfeed article about you and recognized your name. She was very disappointed when your relationship with that, euh, fashion blogger guy didn’t work out.”

Liam — of the popular YouTube channel Bowties & Bordeaux — had been one of Eric’s earlier and more embarrassing forays into dating. “That was  _ years _ ago, I can’t believe she’d been watching that long!” 

“She likes to bake,” Jack said. “Dad’s the cook in the family, but Mom loves sweets more than anything and Dad always messes desserts up. Your videos have helped her get them right — or, less wrong.” 

This was touching to Eric in a way he didn’t wholly understand. “Oh,” he said. “Well, I’m glad she likes them. Maybe you’ll have to come on an episode, surprise her.” 

Jack laughed. “She’d love that, but you don’t want me anywhere near your camera. I’ve been told I make everything stiff and awkward.” 

Eric bit back some cruder jokes and instead said, “I’m sure that’s not true. And besides, if it’s for my biggest fan,  _ Alicia Zimmermann _ , how could I take no for an answer?” 

Their drinks came and Jack smiled shyly. “If you think it wouldn’t ruin things, I’d love to surprise my mom with a video.” 

“Perfect,” Eric said, sipping at his water. The waiter came back again with chips and salsa, and Eric’s hand smacked into Jack’s as they both dove for the piping hot tortilla chips.  “We’ll have to do something Canadian — ooh or hockey themed. Hmm, though if it’s for your mama, we could try and pay homage to her career.”

“Whatever you think is best, Bittle,” Jack said, scooping up an obscene amount of salsa. “What would you do for your mom? Southern comfort? Or Superbowl snacks?”

Eric blinked in surprise, unsure of how to answer. “Oh, uh, I don’t know. She doesn’t watch my videos so I’ve never really thought about it.” 

Jack’s face paled as he realized the implications of Eric’s words. “Oh, Bittle, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“Jack, it’s fine,” Eric said, chewing on a chip. “It’s not the end of the world. What would make your mama happy to see you make? Did you two ever bake together when you were a kid?” 

“Not much,” Jack said. “She was as busy as my dad when I was really young, before she left acting to raise me. But…” He smiled sadly, eyes cast down. “When I was living at home, after the overdose, I’d get into these really long depressions, and when she couldn’t think of any other way to pull me out, she’d make me come downstairs and bake Nestle Tollhouse chocolate chip cookies with her, straight from the bucket. We’d end up eating most of the dough ourselves, while she danced around the kitchen to ABBA. There’d only ever be one tray of cookies that got baked, and Dad ate most of those because we’d make ourselves sick on sugar. I don’t know if I ever thanked her for those nights; the baking never helped, but the fact that she was so determined  _ did _ .” 

Eric bit his lip, a lump rising in his throat. He very much wanted to hug Alicia Zimmermann, and possibly Jack too, for a long, long time. “I think that would make a wonderful video, Jack. Safe-to-eat cookie dough, featuring a nighttime kitchen dance party. We’ll throw in some sprinkles, name the recipe after her. How does that sound?”

“Perfect,” Jack mimicked, snatching another chip from the basket. “She’s gonna be really excited.” 

Eric smiled behind the lip of his cup.  _ At least someone’s mama will be _ , he thought, then brushed aside the small, dark bit of sadness welling up in his chest as their food arrived.   
  


* * *

 

Eric wasn't sure how he and Jack got talked into spending their free Saturday apple picking in the frigid Massachusetts October, but Ford and Sarah had hit it off immediately and, united, were a force to be reckoned with. Eric enjoyed the idea of wandering through the orchard, basket in hand, plucking fruit from the trees in  _ theory _ , but he was cold and tired and could only make so many apple-themed recipes before his followers got bored. Still, the fresh fruit would make everything taste  _ amazing,  _ even if he had to force most of it on Jack and Sarah and Ford to share with their coworkers. 

The two women and co-conspirators in question had wandered ahead, chatting each other’s ears off about Lin Manuel Miranda’s latest show, and Eric lingered by a particularly gnarled-looking tree, struggling to pull his phone from his pocket. 

“Here,” Jack said, taking the overladen basket from Eric’s arm. “Gotta get my weight training in today.” 

“Thanks,” Eric said, peeling off his gloves to open up his camera. The way the light was angled would look beautiful with minimal Photoshopping; Eric supposed at this point in his career he should invest in a real camera, but Jack had his battered, old thing slung around his neck and always let Eric post his photos on the blog, so maybe he’d invest his money in thank you treats instead. 

“There’s...actually something I wanted to talk to you about,” Jack said, voice growing serious. Eric looked up in surprise, and tucked his phone away to give Jack his full attention. “I, uh. Wow, this is actually harder than I imagined.” 

“Take your time, Jack,” Eric said, growing nervous. “Here, I’ll take my basket.” 

“I got it, Bittle,” Jack said with a weak smile. “I wasn’t kidding about weight training. I...I’m bi. Bisexual. And I realized I never actually came out to you — never came out to anyone at Samwell — and now that you’re back in my life in felt weird  _ not _ having you know.”

“Oh!” And this was something Eric had never, ever expected to hear. “Oh, um,  _ wow _ . I can’t say I’m not totally surprised, but, uh, thank you for trusting me with this, Jack. I assume you’re, uh...on the D.L.?”

“Yeah,” Jack huffed, something crossed between laughter and exasperation. “Until I retire, probably. But, uh, there are enough people in the league who are aware...pretty much everyone back at the Falconers knew, they were really supportive there. Of course, I think it’s just ‘cause they liked my boyfriend so much more than me.” He laughed, small and self-deprecating. 

“You had a boyfriend in Providence?” Eric asked, and he surprised himself by not feeling jealous; the curiosity, however, was  _ killing  _ him. “Who? Unless you can’t say…” 

Jack shot him a knowing grin as they slowly began to walk again. “It wasn’t a teammate, if that’s what you’re asking. His name was Ethan. We’d had a few classes together at Samwell — he graduated the year before me — and we ran into each other at the grocery store after I moved to Providence and hit it off. You would’ve liked him,” he added, readjusting the baskets in his hands. “Could talk about Lady Gaga and Beyonce for hours. Plus he was shorter than you, so you could’ve been the tall friend.”

Eric smacked Jack’s arm with a scowl. “You’re such a jerk. Why’d you two break up?” 

Jack’s smile faded. “Ethan didn’t like hiding our relationship. He’d been out since middle school, grew up in a really accepting family and went to  _ Samwell _ and thought I should just come out and tell all the bigots in the league to fuck off. I couldn’t do that, not the way he wanted, so he left.”

“You’re wrong,” Eric said sourly. At Jack’s confused look, he continued, “I don’t think I would’ve liked him at all. He shouldn’t have pressured you like that.” 

Jack smiled at him and shook his head. “It wasn’t fair to him, the way we had to be. But he knew what he was signing up for, I guess. We were young and confused and everything was so new and scary, I really don’t hold his decision against him. I nearly came out in a press conference, once, to try and convince him to stay. George stopped me — the assistant GM, Georgia, I think you met her once — she could tell I was about to do something I’d regret and she intercepted and I don’t know if I ever really thanked her for that. I wasn’t ready and no guy was worth the cost, emotionally, professionally…”

“Oh, Jack,” Eric sighed, reaching up to rub his shoulder. “It must be so hard, not being able to be open about yourself.”

Jack shrugged. “All the guys have to work for a certain level of privacy in their love lives, and I’m not the only one who’s dated men. I have it easier than some; I date women, too. But being in Boston...the only person here who knows right now is Sarah, and if she and I broke up and I started dating a man, I wouldn’t be able to go to her to confide or even  _ talk _ about it. It’s...isolating.” 

“You can always talk to me,” Eric said softly. “I mean it,  _ always. _ About anything. I mean it.” 

Jack grinned at him, soft and bright. “I know. Thanks, Bittle.” 

Eric pulled out his phone again to take a picture of Jack’s smile, earning him a playful kick to to rear. “Can I make you a coming out cake?” Eric asked, picking up the speed a little when he realized Ford and Sarah were nowhere to be seen. “Rainbow layers, sparkly sprinkles, the whole nine yards?” 

“Are you going to do it regardless of what I say?” Jack asked with a knowing look. 

Eric snorted and returned Jack’s look with his own. “Obviously.” 

“Only if it’s shaped like a rainbow. I expect Cake Boss levels of commitment here, Bittle,” Jack said, voice going deep and commanding in a way Eric remembered from early morning practices. It made him laugh. 

“Aye-aye, Cap’n,” Eric said with a mock salute. “It’ll be the best damn edible rainbow you’ve ever seen.”

“Of course it will be,” Jack said, nodding as they rounded a hill and caught sight of Ford and Sarah taking selfies with their baskets. “ _ You’re _ making it.” 

“Oh, stop,” Eric huffed. “You’ll make me blush.”

“Good,” Jack said. “It’s my duty as your friend to embarrass you at least once a week.” 

“Once a day, more like,” Eric muttered. “That’s alright. I haven’t told Sarah about Colgate Roadie Incident yet.” 

Jack’s eyes widened comically and Eric, unburdened by baskets, raced ahead to greet the women, a deliciously awkward story on his tongue. 

  
  


* * *

 

When Jack and Sarah broke up, Eric was almost unnerved by the lack of drama or emotion. 

“She's moving home to Rochester,” Jack said. “To be closer to her parents. I can't just up and move and we haven't been dating long enough to justify long distance. So we broke up.” 

“That's so...practical,” Eric said, setting down his phone. “I'm still sorry, Jack, break-ups are never easy and she was a lovely woman.” 

“Yeah, I really liked her,” Jack said, face crumpling a little in sadness. “But she's been debating this move for a while now and, really, it's better that it's happening now than a year from now if we were still dating. I'll miss her.” 

“Oh, hun,” Eric sighed. “You wanna order Teji’s and watch something stupid on TV?” 

Jack nodded and Eric pulled up his delivery app. 

An hour later and they were sprawled on the couch, eating curry and scrolling through Facebook as some UFO hunting show played in the background. 

“Look at Holster’s new haircut,” Eric said, shoving his phone in Jack’s face. “He looks like a dad.” 

“The polo shirt and khaki shorts aren't helping,” Jack said with a small laugh. 

“Oh, you're right,” Eric said. “He's all ready for a neighborhood barbecue. Oh, Adam, you were always so helpless at dressing yourself.” 

“Is that Lardo’s new girlfriend?” Jack asked, reaching over Bitty to scroll down on the screen. “She's got, like, a foot and a half on Lardo, that's hilarious.” 

“They're cute, though.” Biting his lip, Eric continued scrolling down, passing by the more dangerous-looking posts from family members and high school acquaintances. “Oh! Did Ollie and Wicks get engaged?” 

“Ollie and Wicks are dating?” Jack asked, astounded. “Since  _ when _ ?” 

“Since  _ Samwell _ ,” Eric hissed. “I mean, I don't think they were dating while you were there but they definitely got together before our graduation. I've been told it was a very dramatic, grand romance that most of us were totally oblivious to. Chowder still chirps me for not knowing about it sooner.”

“I had no idea,” Jack said, eyes growing wide. “Wow. That's great.” 

“You don't have to pretend, Jack,” Eric said, nudging him with his elbow. “You would've been in a  _ weird _ position if you'd known while you were captain.” 

“It certainly would've made things...interesting,” Jack relented, setting down his bowl. “You RSVP to Shitty’s wedding yet?” 

“Mhmm,” Eric hummed around his fork. “You gonna have to explain why you suddenly don't need a plus one? Or are you gonna try and find someone?” 

Jack gave him an incredulous look. “You think I could just... _ find  _ a date? Bittle, it's like you don't know me at all.” 

Eric rolled his eyes. “You may be old, Jack, but your ass is still in the top ten in the league. You could very easily find a wedding date if you wore jeans tight enough.” 

“Noted,” Jack said, stretching back to crack his spine. “You should bring whatshisface.” 

“You mean Jason, the guy I've hooked up with twice from Grindr? Real wedding date material, Jack.” 

“Hey, I ran into him on his second walk of shame,” Jack reminded him, standing to take his bowl to the kitchen. Eric held out his, too, and Jack hauled both over to the sink. “He seemed pretty smitten.” 

“I'm just that good,” Eric said around a yawn. “Ugh, no, weddings are awkward enough without dragging some poor date along. I'm gonna go stag, drink too much at the open bar, dance like it's 2015, and regret all of my life choices in the morning.” 

“Sounds like fun,” Jack deadpanned. “I’m excited to see the guys again.”

“Mm, yeah, can’t wait to see Lards,” Eric agreed. “I wanna hear all about Seattle. She seems to really like it there.” 

“Schooners are having a good season,” Jack said, and the twitch at the corner of his mouth told Eric he was just waiting for the inevitable chirps.

“I’m sure Lardo cares a  _ whole lot _ about the Schooners,” Eric said. “Because she cared so much about NHL back in school when it wasn’t directly related to you.” 

Jack flopped back down on the couch, knocking Eric over sideways with the force of his weight. “People change, Bittle.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Eric murmured. “You ready for a hundred and one questions about the Stanley Cup?”

“Always am,” Jack said, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the couch. “I’m thinking about telling Ransom and Holster I drank tub juice out of it, just to see their reactions.”

“You need to win this year,” Eric said, poking Jack’s thigh with his toe. “So we can put pie it in.” 

Jack snorted, not opening his eyes. “Pretty presumptuous of you to assume you’re invited to my cup day,” he chirped, scratching at his stomach idly. His shirt rose up a little, showing off the coarse, dark beginnings of his happy trail. 

“Are you saying you’d really rather spend it with — what, your parents?” Eric teased back, curling his legs to tuck under himself. “Boring.” 

“Mhmm,” Jack hummed. “It’d be much quieter.” 

“ _ Rude _ ,” Eric hissed, barely stifling laughter. “And a lie, your dad’s  _ obnoxious _ .” 

“I won’t argue with that,” Jack said. “Of course I’d want you there for my cup day. I’d just drink maple syrup out of it or something boring. You’d probably find a way to bake an entire wedding cake in there or something, with little skating grooms at the top.”

Eric laughed at the idea. Maybe if Jack ever got married, he’d build him a Stanley Cup-shaped wedding cake. It was the only thing that seemed fitting for a man who’d probably want to get married on an ice rink. 

“Don’t give me ideas,” he said. “You win the cup, and I’ll bake you a wedding cake. Maple-spice, with cream cheese frosting.” 

“Mmm.” Jack licked his lips with far too much enthusiasm. It something so goofy and dorky and  _ Jack _ that Eric found himself scooting over to lean up against his friend. Jack didn’t flinch or even seem startled, just wrapped an arm around Eric’s shoulder and pulled him close. 

“I need to go bowtie shopping for the wedding,” he said, letting his eyes flutter closed. “My favorite red one kicked the bucket.” 

“Red’s a good color on you,” Jack said sleepily. “Samwell Red.” 

“Thanks,” Eric said. “You better wear that blue tie. It-”

“Brings out my eyes, I know. You say that every time,” Jack teased. 

“It’s your best feature, pardon me for wanting to show ‘em off,” Eric said with mock indignance. 

“I thought my ass was my best feature,” Jack said through a yawn. “That's what Shitty always tells me.” 

“Nope.” Eric popped the P loudly, shaking his head. “That ass is fantastic, sure, but you've got the prettiest damn eyes I've ever seen, hands down.” 

“Oh. Thanks,” Jack said, tone surprised. “People don't usually say that.” 

“People are stupid,” Eric said simply. He yawned loudly, jaw cracking, and pushed away from Jack to stand and stretch. “It's getting late. You wanna crash here?” 

“Sure,” Jack said, looking up at Eric with a fatigue-softened gaze. Eric could still see sadness in the stiffness of his shoulder, the downturn of his smile, and his heart ached. “You take my bed, I promise the sheets are clean. In the morning, you're gonna get the tastiest post-breakup French toast of your life.” 

“Or,” Jack countered. “I take the couch and  _ help _ you make French toast in the morning because you've already done so much for me and I'm not kicking you out of your bed.” 

“I'll gladly take the help,” Eric said, hands on his hips. “But I am a southern gentleman. We respect our elders in Georgia, Jack. Take the bed.” 

“Nope. Already here. Not moving,” Jack said, smirking as if he'd somehow outsmarted Eric. But two could play that game. 

Eric hadn't been a college athlete in many years, but he also hadn't totally slacked on his weight training. Before Jack could see what he planned to do, Eric grabbed him by the calves and tugged him straight off the couch. Jack landed on his ass with a shout and a loud  _ thwump _ , and Eric took the opportunity to vault himself onto the couch, spreading out to take up the whole space. 

“Got an extra toothbrush sittin’ on my dresser,” he told Jack as Jack climbed to his feet. “Don't use the green tube of toothpaste in the bathroom, it’s Connor’s and it's ‘natural’ and it tastes like charcoal. I think it might actually be charcoal.” 

“I feel like a dick taking your bed, Bittle,” Jack whined.

“And  _ I  _ feel like a dick making an old man sleep on this couch.” Before Jack could protest, Eric added, “An old man whose job is dependent on the health of his body. My videos will not suffer if I hurt my back on this thing.” 

Jack sighed and Eric knew he'd won. “Let me grab you your comforter and pillow at least,” he said. 

Eric grinned in victory. “Oh, and-?”

“Señor Bun, I know,” Jack called as he wandered into Eric’s room. 

Just as Eric contemplated standing up to grab his pajamas, the front door opened and Jen stumbled in, hand-in-hand with a woman Eric didn't know. 

“E-E-Eri-i-ic!” Jen shouted, waving drunkenly at him. “This is- this is Anisha. She's  _ super _ cool and I want her to stay forever, okay?” 

Though equally inebriated, Anisha managed to meet Eric’s fond, amused glance with her own. “That's, uh, really nice, sugar,” he said, sitting up straighter. 

“We’re gonna build a pillow fort in my room,” Jen continued telling him. “It's gonna be baller. I'd invite you, but we’ll probably have sex it in when we’re gone so  _ nah _ .”

Anisha giggled like mad at this, which set Jen off, and then the two of them were clutching at each other in hysterics. Eric bit his lip, watching in equal parts amusement and adoration; Jen rarely acted this way around flings and hookups. She may have just met Anisha in whatever bar or club she'd been at, but there was a spark there he hoped lasted past the morning. 

“Bittle, I grabbed your pajamas, too, and I gotta say, I'm a little touched.” Jack came back into the living room, arms filled with Eric’s bedding, Señor Bunny, and-

“Where on  _ Earth _ did you find my Falconers sleep shirt?” Eric asked, somewhat mortified. “I thought I lost it in the wash!” 

Jen and Anisha exchanged a look and giggled again. Jack nodded in greeting and dumped the pile on Eric’s feet. “It was tucked inside these red bottoms, fell out when I picked them up. You had my number?” 

Eric rolled his eyes. “Of course I did. Literally all of us bought your merchandise, Jack. Shitty has underwear with your name on it.” 

“You had a Habs shirt, too,” Jack continued, voice soft. “We’d stopped talking by the time I was traded.” 

“So?” Eric looked up at Jack seriously. “I was still proud of you.” 

It may have been the odd lighting of the apartment — the building was older and the previous tenants had been artists and inventors, messing with the wiring of the whole place to fit their aesthetic needs — but Jack’s cheeks looked flushed as he ducked his head. “Thanks,” he murmured.

“We-e-e’re just gonna go,” Jen said, tugging on Anisha’s hand. “Night, Eric. Night, Jack. See  _ both  _ of you in the morning.” 

“Go build your fort, ladies,” Eric called as they disappeared. As soon as Jen’s door closed, he turned to Jack. “There is no way you just  _ found _ my Falconers shirt. You were snooping.” 

“Was not!” Jack protested. “I was...just hoping you'd have pajama pants big enough to fit me.” 

“Too cold for the big, bad Canadian to sleep in his boxers?” Eric teased, hoisting himself up from the couch. He tugged on Jack’s arm and led him back into his room. “C’mon, I'm sure I've got a pair of sweats around here that are stretchy enough in the ass for you.” 

That earned him a headlock and a pathetic attempt at a noogie, but in the end Eric decided it was worth the sore scalp and loss of dignity to see Jack smiling again without inhibition. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if it seems like there's way too much written about the food in this fic, it's because there IS. I've been having Health Issues and my diet’s been super restricted and basically o feel sick all the time but I'm also super hungry all the time and i really miss things like dairy and bread and raw vegetables. ANYWAY enjoy a list of all the foods i can't eat until I'm in remission and even them mayhe not and also an sort of angsty-ish slow burn au of these two idiot hockey players. in love
> 
> Part II coming soon. Mostly written, just needs editing.
> 
> My[ tumblr ](http://eve-baird.tumblr.com/)and [my new project that I hope you'll check out! ](http://thediscourtknife.tumblr.com/)


	2. chapter ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mentions of suicidal thoughts, major bullying, and homophobia
> 
> Title comes from the song We Don't Eat by James Vincent McMorrow.

Shitty’s wedding was weird — but only by nature of being _Shitty’s_ wedding. It was almost puritanical in its decorations and catering, though it at least had an open bar. Kelly, the bride, was smart and sweet, Eric was sure, but the kind of button-nosed, blonde-haired, straight-laced kind of woman Eric never thought would’ve won Shitty’s heart. She called Shitty by his real name, even in normal conversation, and seemed to enjoy talking to his relatives.

“They met at an internship,” Jack told him in a low voice as Shitty and Kelly shared their first dance. “He says she’s the smartest person he’s ever known. Undergrad at Princeton, Harvard Law. She’s from Cambridge, too. Their families go to the same _club._ ”

Eric couldn’t help but wince. “Gosh, and I thought Shitty would escape this WASP-y nightmare after law school.”

Jack snorted into his drink. “Sometimes people find it more comfortable to stick with what they know. This is the only way of life he’s ever known.”

“I’m not buying that,” Eric muttered. “He looks happy, though.”

“I hope he is,” Jack said, almost forcefully. “I really hope he is.”

“You're a good friend, Mr. Zimmermann,” Eric said as a few other couples joined the bride and groom on the dance floor. “A good person.”

“Thanks,” Jack murmured. “I always kind of thought he and Lardo were _it_ , you know? Maybe I was just young and stupid, but I really thought they had something special.”

Eric almost smiled at how genuine Jack sounded. “Just because it didn't work doesn't mean it wasn't special.”

With a huff and a shake of his head, Jack gave him an incredulous look. “...you're right,” he admitted, tone almost amazed. “You got me there.”

“I understand what you mean, though,” Eric continued. “You thought it was special in its strength or passion or whatever, and when it ran its course so quickly it was a bit of a sucker punch. I think that was the first breakup I ever witnessed that really made me second guess love.”

“Love?” Jack asked, brows furrowed.

“Well, not love,” Eric sighed. “Romance. Romantic love or whatever it is we feel when we want to date a person.”

“Lardo and her girlfriend seem happy, too,” Jack said. “Maybe we were just wrong about her and Shitty. Maybe we were too young to know what love was.”

“Maybe,” Eric agreed. “Or maybe we only saw the surface of it all.”

“You're _lucky_ if that's all you saw,” Jack muttered, eyes growing wide and haunted. “I walked in on them. Twice.”

Eric let out a startled laugh, and quickly covered his mouth with his hand. “Jack, you did _not._ ”

“I did,” Jack said, grimacing. “It's really not much I hadn't already seen on Shitty, but I couldn't look Lardo in the eye for weeks. Both times.”

“Oh, my gosh,” Bitty whispered through his fingers. “That's amazing, how did I never hear about that?”

Jack shrugged. “I'm a little surprised Shitty didn't text the whole team about it.”

“Goodness.” Eric bit his lip to hold back the laughter that still threatened to spill out. “I am, too.”

“Bits!” Holster was suddenly behind them, clapping their shoulders roughly. The flush of his neck told Eric he’d already hit up the open bar. “Come dance with me!”

“Sure,” Eric said, letting Holster take his hand. “Need to give Jack a chance to seduce a bridesmaid without me hanging around.”

“Still not funny, Bittle,” Jack called after him. Eric winked at him and followed Holster to the dance floor, purposefully bumping into Ransom and his date as they passed. Ransom flipped them the bird, then seemed to remember where he was and grimaced.

“So, you and Jack seem pretty buddy-buddy,” Holster said as they danced, edging dangerously close to Lardo and her girlfriend. “You two hook up when he got traded?”

Eric _knew_ that Holster hadn’t meant ‘hook up’ to mean anything more than reconnect, but he couldn’t help the way his face burned at the _other_ implications. “Yeah, you know, we just ran into each other in a bar and started hanging out again. He’s sort of integrated himself into my group of friends, which is a bit surreal. And I’m now on a first-name basis with several Bruins. Their nutritionist hates me more than the Falconers’ did.”

Holster laughed. “Of course. It’s funny, but you and Jack...that’s not the friendship I would’ve expected to survive graduation.”

“Well, you and Rans stayed close,” Eric said with a shrug. “And Lards and Shitty recovered from their breakup pretty dang well. But, yeah, I really never expected Jack Zimmermann to fall back into my life.”

“Small world,” Holster mused, then something in his expression turned wicked. “So...is there a Bitty Bae who just couldn’t make it as your plus one?”

“Oh, sugar, no one says bae anymore,” Eric sighed. “And _no_. No boyfriend. Jack just broke up with his girlfriend, if you’re looking for gossip, but no boyfriend talk for you tonight, I’m afraid.”

Holster pouted. “I can wingman you, if you want. Surely Shitty’s got other gay friends here, I can totally hook you up.”

It seemed doubtful; everyone surrounding them looked rich, white, and straight, though Eric supposed he shouldn’t judge others by their appearances. (But he did. Of course he did.) “I’m good, really. But I saw you making eyes at the maid of honor earlier. I can play the sensitive, gay friend if you want, like we used to do at kegsters.”

During a _phase_ Junior year, Eric and Holster had developed a surefire wingman routine. For Eric, Holster would play the possessive-yet-inattentive date, slinging an arm around Eric’s shoulders or hips but otherwise ignoring him, letting Eric shoot suggestive looks at cute guys until one of them followed him up to his room. For Holster, Eric would chat up cute girls, gushing about his kind, funny teammate who had been so welcoming when he’d joined the team and worked _so_ hard to make him feel like one of the guys. It wasn’t a total lie, and it certainly made Holster, the hulking beast he was, seem less intimidating. It was how he’d met his ex-wife. Eric was never sure how to feel about that.

“Nah, those days are behind me,” Holster said. “If I can’t pick up women by just being myself, then I should probably just become a hermit now and save myself another divorce.”

“Smart,” Eric heard himself say. Luckily, Holster chuckled. “So, tell me about work. Ransom mentioned you got a promotion recently.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t actually expecting it,” Holster said, smiling. “But it’s pretty cool…”

Eventually Eric was passed from Holster to Ransom, then after a long debate of whose new album was better — Beyoncé or Solange — he was passed off to Lardo, then Chowder, then Nursey. Eric managed to have a five-minute conversation with Shitty and Kelly before they were pulled away by family, and then he collapsed at his table again, nursing a large glass of wine.

“Been busy?” Jack asked, slipping into the seat next to him.

Wearily, Eric nodded.

Jack sighed. “Yeah, catching up is...a lot.”

“Let’s never move from this table again,” Eric said. “I have wine and a chair. I live here now.”

“I’m okay with that,” Jack said. “Talk to me about anything but hockey. I can’t even think about it right now, I’ve answered so many questions.”

Eric laughed and launched into a story Lardo had told him about the stray cat she’d adopted. It was calming, just chatting with Jack, and before long they’d both caught a second wind. Still, they stayed at their table as long as they could, until they were inevitably dragged away by old friends and the call of the dance floor.

 

* * *

 

The night was beginning to wind down. Ransom and his girlfriend, Iman, had already left, and Holster was making out with a bridesmaid in the corner. Nursey, Chowder, Lardo, and their dates were all dancing in a big, drunken group. Shitty and Kelly had been whisked off to begin their honeymoon an hour before, complete with cans tied to the back of their car.

Jack and Bitty sat at their table on the edge of the dance floor, drinking water in the hopes of staving off hangovers. A handsome man a few tables away raised his own water glass in solidarity, then winked.

“I think that guy’s staring at you,” Eric said, head tucked against Jack’s arm. “You should dance with him.”

Jack chuckled, low and deep in his chest. “He's staring at _you_. And he's more your type, so…”

“You know nothing of my _type,_ Zimmermann,” Eric protested. “Maybe he's looking at both of us. Maybe he wants a threesome. I wouldn't say no, he's really cute.”

“I would,” Jack said, looking down at Eric with an amused grin. “You are very drunk right now.”

“And if I wasn't?” Eric heard himself ask.

Jack’s expression didn't falter. “Well...he _is_ cute.”

“Hmph,” was the only reply Eric could think of. “I guess he'll be very disappointed tonight, then.”

“I think he'll survive,” Jack laughed. “Look at you, Bittle, trying to corrupt a boring old man like me.”

“You're not _boring,_ ” Eric said. “Old, yes, but not boring.”

“You're probably the only person in Boston who thinks that,” Jack said softly.

“Then I'm the smartest person in the whole gosh-darn city,” Eric said simply. “Since I can see what everyone else can't.”

Jack gave him an unreadable look. “And what's that?”

Eric smiled into Jack’s shoulder. “That you're a huge goofball and a good friend and you can make dry, old history documentaries fun with your running commentary and- you're so easy to talk to, Jack. The only people who think you're boring are the ones who haven't bothered to know you.”

Jack started to say something, but was interrupted by Eric’s very loud yawn. “C’mon, Bittle,” he said. “Let’s get you back to the hotel.”

“No threesome, then?” Eric teased as Jack gathered their jackets.

“Not tonight,” was Jack’s response, but Eric was far too drunk to read further into it. His memories of their conversation would be hazy at best in the morning.

 

* * *

 

They filmed Alicia’s video a week after the Bruins were knocked out of the conference finals.

Jack wasn’t quite the sore loser he once had been, but he wasn’t exactly sunshine and rainbows either. Eric found he didn’t quite have the patience for Jack’s long silences and withdrawn moods the way he had in college, but, much like Shitty had, he took pleasure in the little things he could do to pull Jack from his own head.

“Enough moping,” Eric said the evening before they filmed. “I’m not saying don’t be sad-” He interjected before Jack could protest. “Because of course you’re allowed to be upset by the loss. But you’ve been curled up on my couch for three hours now just _staring_ into space. It’s not healthy, and if you called your therapist I’m sure she’d say the same thing, but you _won’t_ call her because you’re a stubborn piece of work. Now get up and come into the kitchen, we’re story-boarding.”

Jack raised an eyebrow but dutifully followed him into the kitchen, expression torn between cranky and sheepish. “The OT loss was _stupid_ , we made stupid calls, if I’d just-”

“Jack, I love you dearly, but you see this? This kitchen?” Eric waved his hand around the room, gesturing grandly at Dolly, the poor oven who’d seen him through so many disasters and experiments. “This is a hockey-free zone. We have never heard of the Bruins in this kitchen. Dolly, bless her rusty, old soul, couldn’t tell you the difference between a puck and a burnt piece of chicken. _You_ are going to stop dwelling on this loss while you are in my kitchen, understood?”

Jack looked down, smiling a little. “You don’t get to build a cake in the cup this year.”

Eric sighed, exasperated but fond. “Then I’ll do it next year. Now — I think it’s high time we film that video for your mama. I’ve been experimenting with safe-to-eat cookie dough recipes and I think I’ve hit on one my viewers will really enjoy.”

“Okay,” Jack said softly, letting Eric pull him over to the counter to look at the storyboard he’d mocked up on his laptop. “What are you thinking?”

Now, they found themselves stirring up four different bowls of cookie dough, adding different things to each bowl to make them colorful and delicious. The bowl closest to Jack was filled with dark chocolate chips, pretzel pieces, and the yellow sprinkles Eric had bought specifically so Jack could unsubtly make his dough Bruins-themed.

Eric beamed at the camera, holding up his own bowl while Jack concentrated on pouring more sprinkles into his. “Now, Miss Alicia’s most famous role was Daisy, from the cult-classic slasher movie, _I Scream, You Scream_ . If you haven’t seen it — and I really do suggest all’ve y’all watch it, it’s horror movie camp at its _best_ — all you really need to know is that’s it’s set at an abandoned ice cream factory. Think: World of Coca Cola, but for a huge ice cream label. So we’re giving our cookie dough an ice cream twist today — by serving up scoops in these sweet little sugar cones.”

As if on cue, Jack reached over and grabbed the tray of cones and presented them to Eric. It wasn’t something they’d rehearsed, but the pure habit of the action made Eric grin. “Thanks, Jack,” he said. “Now, I cooked these up this morning. There’s a link in the description to the video where we learn how to make these little darlings — they’re _so_ easy and honestly make any ice cream taste like it came from some fancy parlor.”

“I like when you coat them in cinnamon,” Jack said off-handedly, pouring more peanut chunks into one of Eric’s bowls; the “more protein” joke was unspoken, but obvious in the twitch of Jack’s lips. “I think I could just eat the cones plain, without any ice cream.”

“You’re sweet,” Eric said, patting Jack’s arm. “And weird, of course you gotta put something _in_ the cones. The cones are a vehicle for more sugar.”

“They’re tasty, though,” Jack said, flashing his most shit-eating grin at the camera. Eric rolled his eyes. “And have enough sugar in them without ice cream or — wait, you’re putting cookie dough in ice cream cones, how am I the weird one?”

And, _gosh_ , did it feel good to see Jack smiling again, even if he was laughing at Eric. “It’s in honor of _your_ mother, Mr. Zimmermann. She’ll be so disappointed to realize she raised such an odd little duck.”

“Oh, she’s aware,” Jack said, still smiling stupidly as he stirred the bowl of marshmallow-toffee-nut cookie dough. “I used to put jell-o and potato chips on my sandwiches as a kid. She’s aware.”

“Ew,” Eric said without any real heat. “Was that good?”

“It’s delicious,” Jack insisted. “Orange jell-o and Lays. On white bread. I was a fat kid,” he added, looking embarrassed.

“You were _adorable_ , is what you were,” Eric said. “Ladies and gents, I think we found our next recipe — Jell-o and Potato Chip Sandwiches. I’m calling it the Zimmermann.”

“Sure, Bittle,” Jack said. “You can do that one on your own.”

“Oh, no.” Eric grabbed the tray of cones and set them up in front of the camera. He intended to cut most of this conversation out in editing, but definitely not all of it. He needed his viewers to chirp Jack for his terrible childhood decisions. “You have to face the music for ever revealing this horrid fact to the world. Now,” he said, returning to YouTube mode. “Our dough is properly mixed and our cones are cooled, so it’s time to grab an ice cream scoop or a big spoon, and make up your cookie dough treats!”

With a flourish, Eric scooped a helping of his over-peanuted dough into a cone, then added a scoop of Jack’s Bruins-themed dough on top. “I _always_ get two scoops when I get ice cream,” he said, just as rehearsed. “Because life’s too short not to eat two flavors at once.”

“I think life’s a little shorter when you _always_ eat two flavors,” Jack chirped.

Eric stared into the camera, unimpressed. “Get out of my kitchen.”

“Am I wrong, Bittle?” Jack asked, snatching the scoop from his hand to make his own, messier cone. He very purposefully only took one scoop of dough, though it was significantly larger than Eric’s.

“Miss Alicia,” Eric said into the camera, casting a sideways glare at Jack. “If you’re watching this, I hate to inform you that your son is a huge jerk and you should be very ashamed of him. I can’t imagine he learned this rudeness from _you_.”

“Did you just insult my dad?” Jack asked, looking far too pleased with himself. “On camera?”

Eric sputtered indignantly. “I did _not_ \- Mr. Bad B- Mr. Jack’s Da- Bob. I meant no disrespect. Your son clearly learned this heathen behavior from hockey. So, perhaps, yes, it’s a little bit your fault. Okay, actually, I am insulting your dad. Someone has to answer for how you turned out. No manners, whatsoever.”

Jack’s smile turned softer, a little sadder. “They did the best they could.”

“Jack…” Eric set down his cone and pulled Jack into a hug. “I didn’t mean it like that. You turned out _wonderful_.”

He could feel Jack relax against him as he let out a sigh. “Is this the part where I talk about the story behind the cookie dough?”

“Only if you want to,” Eric insisted. “That’s why I added the ice cream theme — so we don’t _have_ to explain the cookie dough if you aren’t comfortable talking about it.”

“I want to,” Jack murmured, pulling out of the hug to set his own cone on the plate next to Eric’s. “I want my mom to know how much she means to me.”

“You don’t have to announce it to the entire world, though,” Eric said, gesturing at the camera. "I could edit a separate version of the episode, just for her.”

“I want the world to know she did the best she could with me,” Jack said quietly. “And that she never gave up. Things got really strained between me and my dad after the overdose, and he didn’t...he didn’t give up on me, but he also didn’t know how to react. I don’t know if I would’ve survived if my mom hadn’t been there.”

Eric swallowed back the lump in his throat; there had been so many moments growing up he had just wanted to give up on life, and he might’ve if his mama hadn’t pulled him through it all. He’d never been able to thank her for that, and he supposed he never would. “Okay,” he said slowly. “As long as you’re sure. And I won’t post this video until you sign off on what video clips I use.”

“Deal,” Jack said, grabbing another cone from the tray. “Do I just...start talking?”

“Sure,” Eric said, picking up a bowl to busy his hands. “Talk to me, like we’re having a conversation. You don’t need to look at the camera, unless you want to talk directly to the audience or your mama. Just pretend we’re having a normal conversation.”

“That should be easy enough,” Jack said, sticking his finger into Eric’s bowl to steal a bite of dough. He laughed as Eric squawked in protest, and added, casually, “You’re easy to talk to.”

Eric didn’t respond, just smiled and smacked Jack’s hand away and laughed when Jack tried to wrestle the bowl from his grasp.

 

* * *

 

The day the video was posted, the Bruins, Bad Bob, and Alicia all posted it to their social media accounts. Eric gained a couple hundred new subscribers, most of whom he supposed would be disappointed to discover he didn’t have plans to include Jack in too many future videos.

Jack had texted him, earlier, to say his mother had called him and cried over the phone about the things he’d said, over the fact that he even remembered her attempts to cheer him up. Eric felt warm and light knowing he’d helped facilitate this moment between mother and son, and he found himself humming as he mapped out his social media strategy for the next week.

The best response didn’t come until that evening, when he opened up his email to discover a message from Alicia. She’d screen-capped a still towards the end of the video, where Jack had shoved one of the cones in Eric’s face and was laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes. Eric himself looked like he was going to murder Jack, face red and mouth wide open in the midst of an indignant rant. It made him giggle a little, and take a large swig of his wine.

 _I haven’t seen him look this happy since he was a little boy,_ Alicia’s email read. _Never expected this after a loss. Thank you for the wonderful tribute video, Eric, and for making my son laugh. I hope you can come visit us in Montreal soon. Bobby and I would love to show you around the city, and taste one of these famous pies we’ve heard so much about over the years._

“Now there’s a thought,” Eric said to himself, closing his laptop. He’d respond in the morning, when he wasn’t half-asleep and tipsy. “Maybe I could do an episode on poutine.”

Laughing a little to himself, Eric grabbed his notebook and began jotting down ideas. The idea of putting cheese curds anywhere near his mouth made him shudder, but poutine as a whole didn’t sound much different than all the nasty concoctions folks loved down south. Maybe he’d make his own, Georgia version, with waffle fries and cream gravy and cheddar cheese. Jack would _hate_ it.

“Stop it, Bittle,” Eric said, shaking his head. “Jack has a job, you can’t rope him into yours. Full-time, at least.”

Still, he’d never been to Canada beyond a bizarre and memorable trip to Niagara with Ransom and Holster his Junior year. Maybe he’d say yes, take Alicia up on her offer. Jack would probably enjoy seeing his parents, his hometown. He could talk to Bob about hockey and Eric could grill Alicia on her friendship with Tim Gunn, and they could all cook dinner together like a family and-

“Put a lid on that crap,” Eric whispered to himself, tossing the notebook across the room. “Don’t _even_ go there.”

“You okay?”

Connor poked his head into the living room, looking at Eric like he was a wild animal who might spook. Eric raised his wineglass and put on his most cheerful smile.

“Yep! Just repressing some unwanted emotions, nothing to see here.”

Connor snorted and wandered over to the couch, plopping down on Eric’s feet. “Do I need to send you that article on the power of mindful living again?”

“I will literally pour this wine on you if you do,” Eric said sweetly.

“It’s not healthy to bottle up emotion, Eric,” Connor said softly. “Like, scientifically, it’s not good for you.”

“I know,” Eric sighed.

“Do you?” Connor asked. “Because you do it _a lot_.”

“I’m aware.”

“You really should come to Bikram with me,” Connor insisted for the hundredth time. “Sweat all the negativity out.”

“Mmm, I’m good,” Eric said into his wine. “There’s egg-free cookie dough in the fridge if you wanna be normal and poison your body a little.”

Connor laughed, and another voice called from down the hall, “Holy shit, _yes_!”

“Is that Javier?” Eric asked, raising an eyebrow at Connor in accusation. “I didn’t know you were gonna see him again.”

To Eric’s delight, Connor blushed down to his neck. “Well, um, you know...he’s cute.”

“Mhmm.” Eric grinned and cupped his mouth with his hands. “Feel free to eat as much cookie dough as you want, Javi! Jack and I made plenty!”

“Jack, eh?” Connor asked, elbowing Eric in the ribs. “So that’s why this place smelled like unresolved sexual tension when I got home.”

“You shut your mouth,” Eric said. They both looked up as Javier wandered into the room in only his briefs and a pair of socks, holding the bowl of cookie dough and a spoon. He threw himself onto the couch between Eric and Connor and began eating, moaning loudly and animatedly as he did.

“Holy shit, this is good. Babe, you gotta try some,” he said, mouth full. To Eric’s immense surprise, Connor let himself be fed a bite of cookie dough, blushing furiously as he ate.

“You like it?” Eric asked, mostly to be a little shit. “It’s Bruins colors, to commemorate the fact that they were just knocked out of the running for the Stanley Cup.”

“S’rough, man,” Javi said, clearly not following any of what Eric said. “Your team?”

Connor smirked at him over Javi’s head. “Eric’s best friend is one of their players.”

“No shit,” Javi said, eyes widening. “That’s legit. So you have to, like, know about the sport, then?”

“He and I played together in college,” Eric elaborated, sipping on his wine as the cookie dough in the bowl quickly disappeared. “He was my captain for two years. So I know a thing or two about hockey, yeah.”

“Wow,” Javi said. “So he’s like...almost as famous as you, huh?”

“A little more, I’d wager,” Eric laughed. “Somehow he has more Twitter followers than I do, and he’s tweeted _twice_ since being traded to the Bruins. Once was by accident.”

“But Eric’s not bitter about it,” Connor said, stealing another bite of cookie dough when he thought no one was looking. “Not at all.”

“I have spent _years_ cultivating my social media presence,” Eric hissed. “And he just _waltzes in_ with his full sentences and zero hashtags-”

“Just make him tweet at you every now and then,” Javi said, eyeing the bottle of wine on the coffee table. “All his followers will follow you, bing, bang, boom. Abuse that famous friendship.”

Eric stood to get two more wine glasses. “Oh, he was just in my latest video, and his _very_ famous parents Tweeted about it, so I’m doing pretty well for myself. But _on principle-_ ”

“Is the sugar in this cookie dough fair trade?” Connor asked, and Eric rolled his eyes, knowing he was being told to shut up. He grabbed two wine glasses from the drying rack and stalked back into the living room, setting them down on the coffee table. Javi abandoned the cookie dough for the Syrah, pouring small helpings for both himself and Connor.

“You, uh, gonna put pants on?” Connor asked Javi as he accepted his glass of wine.

“No,” Javier said so defiantly that Eric was reminded of Shitty, naked as a jaybird as he smoked on the Haus roof. The memory made him laugh. “We’re all friends here.”

“Oh, are we?” Eric teased. “You eat my food and drink my wine-”

“And in return, I tell you embarrassing things about Connor,” Javi said matter-of-factly, patting Connor’s shoulder. “This man here — he’s a screamer.”

Eric snorted. “Tell me something I _can’t_ hear through the walls.”

“Alright, bonding time is over,” Connor said, standing and pulling Javi to his feet. “Thanks for the wine and sugar, Eric. Have a good night repressing your emotions or whatever.”

Javi winked and waved at Eric as he was dragged back to Connor’s room, and then Eric was left alone with three half-empty glasses of wine and a smidgen of cookie dough. The cookie dough went back in the fridge for Jen to find, but he downed the remaining wine like a champ and stumbled off to bed, decidedly _not_ thinking about the Zimmermann family in any way, shape, or form.

 

* * *

 

“You remember Poots?” Jack asked one evening, low enough that only Eric could hear him. They were at O’Flannery’s for trivia night — something Jen and Monica took very seriously — and the pub was loud and crowded enough that Jack didn’t really have to worry about being overheard.

“Yes,” Eric said, ignoring Jen and Pete’s screaming match over how many black keys there were on a piano. “Poor thing never outgrew that nickname, huh?”

Jack laughed. “I think the Stars really took to it when he was traded. Apparently he’s getting divorced — he married that country singer you like, uh, Carly…?”

“Kenzie Morris?” Eric frowned. “Gosh, isn’t she a _baby_? What was she thinking?”

Jack gave him a fond look. “What was she thinking marrying a hockey player? Good question.”

“Oh, stop,” Eric said, shoving Jack’s shoulder. “Gettin’ hitched so young. You don’t know what you want out of life when you’re twenty. And it’s the 21st century, what’s the rush?” Eric stopped himself, knowing he was treading into dangerous territory. “Sorry, sorry. I’m sorry to hear that, is he taking it okay?”

Jack shrugged. “I can’t tell. But the divorce is getting messy, and because they’re both public figures it’s apparently turning into a _thing_ on Twitter. He’s being accused of cheating, _she’s_ being accused of emotional abuse — and not even by each other. By the internet. By their celebrity friends and the tabloids. Everyone’s getting involved in what should be a private matter and it’s...honestly it’s making me a little sick.”

Monica was shouting something about a trick question, but Eric ignored his teammates. “I’m sorry.”

“I just…” Jack sighed and picked at the salad he’d ordered in protest of Eric’s blooming onion. “I wish they could’ve handled this more maturely from the start, and I wish they had the privacy other people are afforded for this sort of thing. I don’t understand how things can get so bad between two people that they wouldn’t be able to...agree that a relationship isn’t healthy and that going separate ways would be best for everyone.”

“Really?” Eric asked softly. “You can’t think of any relationship you’ve ever had where the other person couldn’t see how toxic it had become?”

“I know, I know,” Jack said with a sigh. He’d told Eric about his past friendship with Kent Parson during one of their lunches, quietly in a noisy Italian deli. He hadn’t gone into specifics, but Eric had made...assumptions about the nature of their relationship. “But that’s what I’m saying — why couldn’t he see what I did? Why did it have to become...drama?”

“Well, I mean, I don’t know a whole lot about what happened there,” Eric said, tapping his finger against the pitcher of beer that was sweating condensation onto the table. “But you said you ignored him a whole lot, after...and that there were a lot of unresolved issues between the two of you that you eventually had to talk about…”

“But how did he not _feel_ how bad it was?” Jack asked. “I know I went through a lot of therapy, but it was just...obviously not a healthy dynamic. For either of us. We weren’t happy,” he murmured, so soft Eric almost missed it.

“You were kids,” Eric said, reaching out to touch Jack’s arm. “Look, I don’t know Poots and Kenzie, but I’m assuming they got married for all the wrong reasons, because they’re young and we all grow up with this idea that when you find someone you love you have to marry them and settle down with them and bust your ass to try and afford a house and a dog and two-point-five kids with them, and stay together until you’re dead. Not every love is meant to withstand that kind of thing. And no one ever teaches you what love even is, really, what it’s supposed to feel like, how you’re supposed to treat the people you love. So you get men who think their wives are supposed to mother them, you get women looking for husbands to pay for lifestyles they can’t afford, because that’s how life is on TV, that’s the American Dream.”

From the stunned look on Jack’s face, Eric assumed he'd gone too far into a rant. Jen had borne the brunt of Eric’s disillusionment with the institution of marriage, when they'd first met and she was more patient. He'd learned since then how to keep a lid on it, most of the time. 

“You've got...quite an opinion on this,” Jack said, nearly drowned out by the excited shouts of Austin and Ford trying to name three EGOT winners.

Eric looked down at his lap, face burning. “Sorry.”

“Don't apologize,” Jack said. “It's...a refreshing take on things.”

“No, it's a depressing take on things,” Eric said, gnawing on his bottom lip. “Just ignore me.”

Jack looked like he was going to protest, but then they were pulled back into the game by Jen and Ford, frantically shouting some question about baseball statistics. Jack managed to remember the answer, and then, to Eric’s relief, they were both too enthralled in the excitement of trivia night to return to their conversation.

 

* * *

 

As the crew walked back to the apartment, Jack and Eric fell behind, letting the others race ahead in their goofy, inebriated victory. It was a quiet night, mostly, as quiet as the city ever really got, and the night air was warm and muggy.

“How's, uh, whatshisname?” Eric asked in an undertone. Jack had slowly been coming out to their friends and Bruins alike, but they were still in public and Eric would always be cautious about it by nature. “Matt?”

“Oh, that didn't work out,” Jack said with a shrug. “It was nice of Mackie to try and set me up but we just...weren't compatible.”

“He didn't know anything about hockey, did he?” Eric teased, knocking his shoulder against Jack’s.

“No,” Jack admitted sheepishly. “And he was really...I don't know. Quiet. Awkward. Serious.”

This threw Eric a little. Sarah had been quiet and awkward. _Jack_ was the most serious person he knew, though he supposed his friends set a pretty low bar for that. “You're looking for someone more...extroverted?”

Jack shrugged. “I guess? I just...I like when I don't have to keep the conversation running the whole time. Like, with Shitty — he and I can hang out for hours and I don't have to say a word. He just talks and talks and I listen and it's...it's nice.”

Eric couldn't help but be a _little_ bit of a shit. “So you're looking to date someone like _Shitty.”_

“Let’s not get carried away,” Jack said drily. “Not a mustache kind of guy myself.”

“What _is_ your type, Mr. Zimmermann?” Eric asked, just enough beer in his belly to give him the courage to ask what he'd been dying to know. “Tall? Short? Bear? Twink? Enquiring minds need to know.”

Jack laughed at him, a little awkwardly. “I don't have a type. I, um. I guess I like guys who're shorter than me.”

“Mhmm, mhmm, go on,” Eric said, pantomiming taking notes. Jack punched his shoulder, grin embarrassed but wide.

“And, uh,” he shrugged. “I like...I feel weird using the term twink, I'm not gonna lie.”

Eric could've screamed he was so delighted. “Jack, I think this is the closest anyone has ever gotten to getting deets from you. Tell me everything, this is amazing.”

“No, this is weird,” Jack said. “Deets are a two-way street, Bittle.”

“Fine. I answer a question, you answer a question,” Eric said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Ask away.”

“What was your first boyfriend’s name?” Jack asked. “I remember hearing about him, but no one ever told me much.”

Of _course_ Jack would waste his first question on something so boring and a sweet. “His name was Aidan and you didn't hear much because it didn't last long. He was kind of a pompous jerk. How old were you when you first had sex?”

Jack choked on air, looking utterly betrayed. “Seriously, Bittle? I asked you a normal question!”

“All’s fair in love and deets,” Eric said simply.

Jack sighed. “I was sixteen. I honestly don't remember all of it, I was kind of...messed up. And I came embarrassingly fast, the poor girl looked so put out. Kenny never let me live that down.”

Eric’s heart ached for teenage Jack. There were days he wanted a time machine just so he could go back and hold that child in his arms until everything was okay.

“So, uh. How old were you?” Jack asked, breaking into Eric’s thoughts. Eric looked down at the pavement, feeling warm at the collar. “Twenty,” he admitted, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I got...a little wild my Junior year. A little desperate. I'd spent all the previous year with a hopeless crush on a straight boy, like a _fool_ , and I still wasn't out to my parents and every date I went on just went to garbage so I...was a little bit of a skank,” he whispered, wringing his hands together. “Which, like, sex positivity and slut shaming is bad and yadda yadda but, uh...it's a part of my life I try to forget. I wasn't myself then. I wasn't in a great place.”

He could see Jack’s sympathetic gaze out of the corner of his eye, so he quickly added, “Who was your favorite, in bed? Out of all the girlfriends, boyfriends, hookups....”

Jack made a contemplative noise, scratching at the back of his neck. The rest of the group had long since disappeared into the apartment building, and he spent the entire walk up to Eric’s floor to decide. “I think...it's a tie between Camilla Collins and Ethan. Camilla was...enthusiastic, but Ethan had ridiculous stamina.”

Eric thought he was going to explode. As if it wasn't great enough he'd just gotten explicit deets from Jack Zimmermann, but now Jack was blushing an amazingly bright shade of red. Eric had the urge to call Shitty just to gloat.

“I think I'm gonna come back to that Ethan comment,” Eric said as they got to the apartment. The crew had taken over the living room, gathered around Jen’s laptop to watch cat videos on YouTube. Connor’s door was shut but there was a faint light under the door. Jack followed Eric into his bedroom, sitting down on the edge of the bed as Eric shucked off his shoes and jacket.

“Who was the straight boy?” Jack asked out of the blue, as Eric contemplated changing into sweatpants. “You were saying earlier you spent a whole year hung up on a straight guy…”

“Oh.” And now Eric felt a bit awkward, but Jack had been so forthcoming with _his_ deets. “Well, turns out he wasn't as straight as I thought…”

Jack blinked at him, not understanding.

Eric laughed, feeling a bit hysterical. “You, Jack. I'm talking about you.”

“Oh.” Jack frowned at his lap. “I'm sorry.”

“Are you being serious right now?” Eric laughed harder, sitting down on the bed next to Jack. “Are you apologizing for, what? Being too handsome in college? Being nice to me?”

“No,” Jack said seriously. “For not coming out to you. If you'd known I wasn't straight-”

“I still would've pined away instead of doing anything about it,” Eric assured him. “It wouldn't have changed anything, Jack. It was _my_ problem and I got over it.”

Jack cast him a small smile. “By going through your skanky phase?”

“I'm not living that down, am I?”

“Oh, no.”

Eric huffed. “Yeah, I brought that on myself. C’mon, if we don't break up the cat videos now they'll all sleep on the couch and then I have to deal with a bunch of hungover babies running late to work in the morning.”

“You get the laptop, I'll get Pete off the top of the dogpile.”

“A-a-and _break._ Hustle, Zimmermann, hustle,” Eric said, mimicking the voice Coach always used during huddles. Jack shot him an exasperated look but let Eric shove him into the living room all the same.

 

* * *

 

Jack didn’t bring up the crush again, nor did he act differently around Eric, for which Eric was grateful. He’d always been a little embarrassed by how hard he’d fallen for Jack back then, especially since he’d been under the impression that Jack was _straight_.

Sometimes Eric let himself wonder what might’ve happened if he’d known. Would they have gotten together? Jack had never seemed interested, but Jack wasn’t the most forthcoming person either. Maybe, if Eric had plucked up the courage, if he’d just _gone_ for it…

Then they might’ve been together, sure. And they might’ve gotten married. Or they might’ve had a good run and broken up when Jack was traded to Montreal or when Eric got tired of hiding or when Jack reconnected with Ethan or-

Well, it didn’t matter how it _might’ve_ happened. Because no matter what _might’ve_ happened, almost every scenario Eric could run through ended with Jack going away and not being here, now, in Eric’s life. And maybe that’s how Jack saw it, too. There was no point in focusing on past feelings when they were so great now.

Still...there were guilty nights where Eric’s mind wandered, toeing a dangerous line. It wasn’t always explicit, though he’d be lying if he said he _didn’t_ have those dreams. Sometimes he dreamt about just being with Jack, the two of them in a hazy, golden room. Sometimes they kissed, sometimes they just smiled.

As much as they scared him, Eric treasured those dreams. And for the first time in years, he let himself be happy in the love he gave, and the love he had.

 

* * *

 

“Let’s do something really stupid.”

Jack looked up from his book in surprise, eyebrow raised. “I’m scared to ask.”

“Remember, at school, when Shitty or Ransom or Holster would just round us up, no explanation, and take us on some wacky adventure?” Eric asked, tossing his satchel to the floor. “Those are my favorite memories of Samwell.”

Jack gave him an amused look, setting his book on the coffee table. “One of those ‘adventures’ ended with you abandoned in the garden section of Home Depot.”

“I wasn’t _abandoned,_ ” Eric protested. “Just...temporarily left behind because the boys got distracted and wanted McDonald's.”

“Bittle,” Jack said. “I had to leave a meeting with Hall and Murray to drive out there pick you up. Ransom and Holster knocked over an entire display in the appliances section and Shitty lost a bag of weed and made me and you look for it for, like, twenty minutes. And then we had to go to McDonald's and pull Holster out of the playground because he got _stuck_.”

“Jack,” Eric said, grabbing his face in both hands dramatically. “It’s been over a decade since that happened and you remember _every_ detail of that day. Can you remember writing your thesis that clearly? Can you remember games from last _season_ that clearly? Those ridiculous memories are _important_.”

Jack didn’t look convinced. “I’m not going to Home Depot.”

“You silly man, I’m not asking you to,” Eric sighed. “Let’s just get in the car and leave the city and discover something new. Do something stupid. Let’s go make a memory.”

“Are you having a midlife crisis?” Jack asked, but he stood nonetheless. “Seems a bit early.”

“Jack, look at us,” Eric said, crossing his arms against his chest. “You’re playing hockey — _still_ — and I’m working my dream job and it’s amazing but some days it’s hard and it’s nothing like we expected and I’m afraid we’re gonna get content and settle and just melt into our comfort zones and die unfulfilled.”

“So this _is_ a midlife crisis,” Jack said with a deep sigh. “Alright, I’ll get my keys.”

 

* * *

 

They didn’t say much as they drove out of the neighborhood. Eric was always grateful at Jack’s total confidence behind the wheel; all these years later and Eric had never been able to overcome his fear of Boston traffic. Like a proper city-dweller, he depended wholeheartedly on public transit, ridesharing, and abusing his friendships with brave drivers like Jack.

Half an hour after they merged onto the highway, Jack pulled off at a reststop, all but dragging Eric into the gas station convenience store.

“Here,” Jack said, grabbing a bag of Munchies off the shelf and shoving it into Eric’s hands. “Grab some Sno Balls, too. I’ll get the beer.”

“What?” Eric grabbed the hideous, pink balls of crap off the shelf where Jack had pointed and scrambled to follow him back to the coolers. “Why are we getting beer?”

Jack smirked at him and grabbed the first six-pack of Natty he saw. “Do you have any idea how many crises Shitty went through between Samwell and Harvard? I’m in my element, Bittle.”

The thought of young, panicked Jack Zimmermann plying a long-haired and probably-naked Shitty with junk food and beer in an attempt to calm him down brought a smile to Eric’s face. “Well, I won’t argue with the expert, then.”

They paid for the snacks and hit the road. By the time Jack pulled off the highway again, they both had orange-stained mouths and fingers, the bag of Munchies half demolished.

“Should’ve brought napkins,” Eric said with a sigh. “We look like little kids.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Jack said as he pulled into a small, unassuming parking lot. “Will you grab the beer?”

Nodding, Eric grabbed the beer from the back and followed Jack across the parking lot and through a gate, until they were walking down to a small, ugly beach.

“Discovered this place while visiting Shitty and Lardo once, back when I was with the Falconers. We got lost on our way to a party and ended up here. They were both pretty upset we were on some boring beach instead of the ‘rager of the year,’ but...there’s something about it that I loved. It’s isolated, quiet. People don’t seem to come here much, except to walk their dogs.”

Eric was struck by the fact that Jack was sharing this place with him — _him_ , a person who could talk about this beach on Twitter and ruin its secrecy in a millisecond. But he trusted Eric with his quiet place, without any hesitation.

“I love it,” Eric breathed. And he did — it was ugly and unassuming, but the water was smooth on the horizon and the sounds of the city seemed muted and distant. Mostly, though, he loved it because Jack loved it.

The night was warm, but Eric still felt goosebumps prickle across his skin as he stripped down to his briefs. Next to him, Jack peeled off his shirt and offered Eric a beer. Eric took it and waited for Jack to fold his pants before taking Jack’s hand and tugging him towards the ocean.

The water was cold and Eric wasn’t proud to admit he screamed a little as it lapped his bare legs. Jack laughed at him and got a faceful of water for it. And then Eric was in the air, hoisted up by two thick, warm arms, and plunged into the frigid water shoulder-first. He managed to hold onto his beer, barely, and the moment he surfaced he latched onto Jack’s shoulder, dragging him down as he toppled backwards into the waves.

Jack and Eric surfaced again, laughing and splashing each other like little kids. Eric’s eyes burned from the water and his mouth was uncomfortably salty, but the push and pull of the water soothed him like nothing else.

Floating on his back, Eric popped the tab of the beer and drank, spitting out the brine that had collected on the rim. Jack laughed at him again, stretching out to mirror his floating position.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” Eric said after he managed a less salty swig of beer. “It’s so peaceful.”

“You seemed like you needed a place to think,” Jack said simply. “This is where I come when everything’s too loud. It’s where I came when they told me I was going to the Habs, and where I spent my first few weeks after being traded here, when everything felt so uncertain.”

“You seem...you seem like you’re happier now,” Eric said, unsure of how to phrase what he was thinking. “Than you were in school. More...stable?”

“I am,” Jack said softly. “The first year with the Falcs, and the first couple with the Habs, they weren’t great — I really didn’t have my anxiety under control at Samwell, and with the constant moving it was hard to find a therapist who worked well with me. The man I saw in Montreal...he wasn’t great. I realized it, eventually, that I _wasn’t_ making up my anxiety like he suggested and that _he_ was the problem, but it took a long time. Too long.”

“Oh, Jack, I’m sorry,” Eric said, but Jack shook his head.

“It’s okay, it was...I think I grew as a person, to realize that he was wrong and I could find someone new. But even though it took me a while to find my therapist here, she’s good at her job. No-nonsense, but patient, rational. It’s a good fit. And...my friends in Boston are the best I’ve ever had. You and Shitty. Ford, Monica, Austin...Mackie, Cruiser. I think…” Jack paused, drifting closer to Eric as the waves undulated beneath them. “I think this is the happiest I’ve ever been in my life. I’m playing good hockey, I’m hanging out with a lot of genuine, kind people, my anxiety’s under control most days…”

Eric couldn’t help the tears welling in his already-stinging eyes. Pressing his lips tightly together, he reached out to take Jack’s hand. Jack let him lace their fingers together, and held on as another wave passed by.

“I’m really happy to hear that,” Eric murmured. “You were...at school...your eyes were always so sad, you know? Even when you were laughing or giving a pep talk or studying, there was always something so unhappy in the way you looked.”

Jack squeezed his hand. “Yeah,” he sighed. “I could say the same about you, though.”

“What?” Eric turned his head a little, to frown at the side of Jack’s face. “What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you ever looked at old photos from college?” Jack asked, rubbing small circles into the back of Eric’s hand with his thumb. “No matter how widely you’re smiling, your eyes are always, euh, guarded. Wary. Even a little sad.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “You were always so careful around the team, like we were all going to wake up one morning and start hating you. Now, though — you’re so relaxed around everyone, around me. It’s nice,” he added, turning to smile at Eric.

The sky above them was gray and dull, but to Eric it could’ve been the most beautiful shade of blue with how content he felt, floating in the ocean, hand-in-hand with Jack, talking about who they once were and how things really had changed for the better.

“I guess that’s a perk of having very few straight friends,” Eric joked. “It eliminates the fear of being beat up and shoved in a closet.”

He could hear Jack’s frown in his silence. Eric tried not to talk about his childhood, felt it was best to leave it in the past, but moments like this tended to slip out unintentionally. “Things weren’t great for you in Georgia,” Jack said, more of a statement than any sort of question.

“You could say that.” Eric took a long swig of his beer. “It’s a small town, very conservative. You go to church every Sunday, no matter what, and call everyone ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am.’ Gay was a dirty word in school, and a powerful one. Guys used it to emasculate each other; girls used it to ruin each other’s reputations.

“I knew from a young age that I thought other boys were handsome. I tried so hard to look at girls that way. When the boys would talk about crushes and girls, I’d latch onto one girl’s name for the year and let the boys tease me about her. And it’s not like I was doing it intentionally, really, I was so young. Having a crush on a girl is what you did, what you were supposed to do, so I chose which girls I’d have a crush on and stuck with it. By the time I reached high school, I knew I was gay, even if I wouldn’t even admit it to myself. There were no out kids in my town. That was a guaranteed way to make your life a living hell, and I was already close, since the boys...suspected.”

Eric took a deep breath and another long drink. He hated talking about everything that happened to him, but now that he’d started he found he couldn’t stop. Maybe Jack was onto something with his therapy sessions.

“I got real good at hiding the bruises from my mama, though I think she knew something was wrong. Most of them were easy to pass off as skating injuries. The day...the day the boys locked me in the storage closet, my friend, Ashley, had talked me into going to the Vice Principal to report the bullying. But they handled it poorly, brought in all the boys I’d reported and questioned them using my name. They all got slaps on the wrist — detention or something — and then they were let loose with the knowledge that I’d ratted on them. I’m lucky they only roughed me up a little before shoving me in the closet, lucky they got spooked by the gym teacher passing through. It could’ve ended so much worse; they could’ve killed me, and Lord knows the school district would’ve tried to cover it up or play it off as ‘boys being boys.’ Nobody would’ve cared what happened to that gay, little narc. Not when it jeopardized the futures of their precious football players”

Tears were welling up in Eric’s eyes again, and he blinked them away as best he could. Jack’s grip on his hand was almost painfully tight now, but he didn’t say anything. As if he could do more than he already was; there were no words that could heal these old, reopened wounds.

“Madison was better,” Eric said, sniffling a little. “I think...I didn’t let myself have friends after we moved. The less anyone knew about me, the less there’d be for them to hate. It was lonely, but I stopped getting beat up, stopped covering up bruises. Hockey was manly enough for people to only sort of judge me, even if it was co-ed. The school was a bit bigger than my last one, so I could fade into the background a bit easier. I buckled down and studied hard, got into Samwell, and finally saw a light at the end of the tunnel. Then I met y’all, met you.

“The worst part, though, was that we never talked about me, me and my parents. Coach had already been debating accepting the job offer in Madison, so it was sort of an unspoken decision that moving schools was the best choice. But they never asked about the bullying, never asked how it affected me, never saw how suicidal I’d become. I was ready for those boys to kill me, I was so tired of living in fear. Mama was my best friend, my rock, but there are things down there that you just don’t talk about, and feelings are one of them. It’s not proper.”

“Fuck that,” Jack said, more heat in his voice than Eric expected. “Fuck that shit and fuck them.”

“Yeah,” Eric sighed. “It’s...it’s like...there are all these unwritten rules in that place. How to dress, how to act, what to believe. You get married as soon as you can and have as many babies as you can because contraception is the Devil and babies are a gift from God, even if you can’t afford ‘em, even if you don’t really want ‘em or are still a baby yourself. And it’s...it’s the norm. It’s all you know, and most people are okay with it, seem happy with it. And it’s the freaks like me who can’t handle it.”

“You’re not a freak,” Jack said softly. “Please tell me you know that.”

Eric took a sip of beer and hummed a little in thought. “I am, though, down there. Gay, liberal, agnostic, unmarried at age thirty. I left God’s Country for New England, Jack, that’s practically blasphemy.”

“But hating thy neighbor isn’t?” Jack asked. Eric snorted.

“I’m not saying they’re not a fistful of filthy, bigoted hypocrites. Hive mentality is scary strong there. But it’s...like I said, it’s all you know. Mama and Coach started dating in junior high, all the way through high school. Coach went to college on a football scholarship and Mama followed him there and didn’t even finish before they got married. Instead of a degree, she got a baby. That baby was her whole world and then it grew up small and gay and dashed all her dreams of having the perfect, quarterback son who’d marry a cheerleader and give her a thousand fat, blonde grandbabies.”

Eric was crying in earnest now, nose running and vision totally blurred. The sobs came in horrible, hiccuping wracks of his body, almost moving in tandem with the ocean waves.

And then Eric was upright, pulled into a tight hug. He tucked his face against Jack’s neck, wet and warm, and let out everything he’d pent up for so long. He missed his mother and resented his mother and never even thought much about his father. He hated that he’d missed out on a normal adolescence, that he’d felt so behind when he got to college, that he’d still been so scared when he’d left Georgia. He missed Georgia, the thick summer nights, the sky brimming with stars in a way he never saw in the city. He hated that he still had nightmares about the closet incident, hated that he probably always would.

“Your mom,” Jack said quietly, lips against Eric’s ear. “I mean, you still could have kids...get married…if that’s really what she’s upset about...”

“But why is that the goal?” Eric asked, feeling exasperated. “Why am I defined by romantic relationships? By _one_ romantic relationship? Why is anyone? The most important relationships in my life have never been romantic or sexual — my mother, once upon a time. My friends. You.” He heard his voice crack, and Eric swiped angrily at his eyes. “I love you more than any man I’ve ever dated. Doesn’t that count for something? Doesn’t that _matter_?”

Jack was silent for a long moment, then he tightened his grip and murmured, “Yeah. It does.”

“I’m just so tired,” Eric said against Jack’s shoulder. “This life-long search to find the perfect partner, someone who’ll love us and fuck us and marry us and raise our kids and it’s- is it even worth it? Does it even work?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “For some people, I guess.”

“I guess,” Eric parroted, pulling back. The water was shallow enough for him to stand, so he took a few steps back and wiped the snot from his face. “Thank you for this, for letting me cry. I...I didn’t realize I needed that.”

“Always, Bits,” Jack said, clapping him on the shoulder. “C’mon, let’s go get dinner or something. Unless you want to keep swimming.”

“No,” Eric said, shivering a little. “I’m freezing. Let’s go get food that we didn’t buy in a gas station.”

“A man after my own heart,” Jack teased, and they raced back to the shore, where their clothes laid waiting.

 

The diner food they ended up eating wasn’t a whole lot better than gas station snacks, but there were certainly more vegetables, so Eric considered it a victory. When he saw his salad had fried chicken on it, Jack pulled out a bottle of Tums from his pocket and Eric laughed himself silly, making every old man joke he could think of. Jack pouted for a bit, but kept smiling when he thought Eric wasn’t looking.

When Jack dropped him off that night, he pulled Eric into a tight goodbye hug, only breaking away after he’d dropped a kiss to the top of Eric’s head. Eric watched the entire time as Jack drove away, and fell asleep that night smelling like sea water and beer, a small, content smile on his face.  


* * *

 

Everything changed in a whirlwind, it felt. Jen got engaged, Connor decided to move in with Javier, Eric had signed a sponsorship deal with a popular Blue Apron competitor and found himself busier, wealthier, and sudden lacking two roommates. Despite how much he loved his apartment, it was time to move on.

Eric had never lived totally alone before. He’d gone from his parents’ house to freshmen dorms to the Haus to a series of roommates post-graduation; this was new territory for him, and he was terrified.

He should have known Jack would insist on helping him through the entire process of apartment hunting and moving. Jack had moved entire cities several times in his career, had moved to Boston not all that long ago, knew where to look and what, exactly, to look for. He was absolute life-saver, and Eric nearly blew through his first sponsorship paycheck with all the _thank you_ baking he insisted on doing.

Move-in day was bittersweet. Eric missed being able to wander over to Jen’s room to talk, missed chirping Connor for his fad diet of the month, missed the security of knowing there was always someone else in the apartment if something went awry. But his new place was _his_ , and just down the line from Jack’s apartment, and he had plans with Jen this weekend and Connor texted him to whine about work _all day_ and...change was scary, but it would be okay.

Jack recruited several Bruins to help move Eric’s furniture, as well as a few Falconers he’d reconnected with in the past few months. Alexei Mashkov — a man whom Eric had met only a handful of times in college — greeted him with a huge hug, like they were best friends. He’d retired the year previous, but stayed in the area with his girlfriend and their five dogs, and seemed as jubilant and amiable as ever.

“You know,” Tater said to Eric that night as the men were treated to boxes of pizza and salad for their work. “When Zimmboni come out to me, many years ago, I am thinking he would introduce me to boyfriend.”

Eric raised an eyebrow. “He didn’t introduce you to...um...Ethan?”

“No, no, he did,” Tater said, smirking around the lip of his beer bottle. “Let us just be saying...I expected _different_ boyfriend. Little baker boyfriend.”

Despite himself, Eric blushed. “Oh, um, well-”

“Am just saying,” Tater continued, slapping Eric on the back. “Zimmboni talk a lot about little baker — then and now.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Eric said, looking down at his feet. “So, I hear you just adopted a new dog…?”

Tater grinned and pulled out his phone to show Eric pictures of his new mastiff mix. Between complaining about the slow wifi and cooing over the puppy’s huge, fluffy paws, both Eric and Tater forgot about their earlier conversation.

At least, that is, until it grew late and the hockey players began to trickle out of the apartment, laden down with tupperwares of leftover salad and fresh-baked muffins. Eric found himself pressed up against Jack’s arm on the couch, sleepy and full and content in his new place.

“Must hit road,” Tater said, shooting off what Eric assumed was a text to his girlfriend. “Need to go home and snuggle all the puppies — including Katie. She’s snuggliest of all puppies,” he added with a cheesy grin.

“You’ll have to bring her around sometime,” Eric heard himself say. “We’d love to meet her.”

“Date night with Zimmboni and B,” Tater mused, scratching at his chin. “Sounds fun. I’ll text you.”

And then, with no sense of subtlety, Tater winked at them and left, humming something under his breath. Eric was torn between blushing and rolling his eyes, so instead he stood and began gathering the trash littered around the living-area-slash-kitchen.

“Thank you for rounding up the troops for today, I can’t imagine how this would’ve gone with just us. And it was fun seeing some of the Falconers again,” Eric added as Jack wandered around to pick up bottles for the recycling. “I didn’t realize how many of them had retired.”

“Yeah, well, Marty and Thirdy were old when I started,” Jack said. “And Tater had a really bad concussion his last season, so it was just safer. But you’re right, it’s nice to see them again. Can you believe Thirdy’s daughter’s in high school now?”

“Gosh, I feel old,” Eric laughed, slipping the garbage can back into its place under the sink. “Do you ever think about retiring?”

This wasn’t the _first_ time they’d had this conversation, but Eric was always a little afraid to broach it and Jack rarely gave a straight answer. “Sometimes,” Jack said with a grimace. “Mostly I like to pretend I’ll play forever.”

Eric couldn’t help but give Jack a fond smile. “Are you trying to break some sort of record, Mr. Zimmermann?” He asked, pulling out his recycle bin. Jack carried over his teetering pile of bottles and dumped them into the basket without ceremony.

“Maybe,” Jack said. “I’m just not sure what I’d do with myself if I retired. Coach, I guess. Carry your filming equipment to interviews. Watch a lot of Netflix.”

“Oh, I’d certainly keep you busy,” Eric said, patting Jack’s arm. “I could use an unpaid intern.”

Jack rolled his eyes and smiled. “Which is why I’m going to play as long as I can. Until I die.”

“Please do _not_ die on the ice, Jack,” Eric admonished. “I like you alive and in one piece, thank you.”

“Sure, Bittle,” Jack said. “Just for you, I’ll try not to die.”

Eric grinned up at him and slid the recycle bin back into place. “That’s all I ask.” When Jack yawned, he asked, “Do you wanna crash here tonight?”

Jack nodded and barely protested when Eric insisted on taking the couch. He didn’t bother with pajamas this time, and Eric always had a toothbrush set aside for him; it was almost habit when Jack carried out bedding and Señor Bunny to set on the cushions. They got ready side-by-side in Eric’s new bathroom and said goodnight at the door of Eric’s new bedroom and Eric spent his first night in his new apartment sleeping on the couch, listening to the sounds of Jack snoring from the next room, a smile on his face.

 

* * *

 

Eric couldn’t even remember why Coach had called, he was so angry. It had been something innocuous, maybe asking advice for a wedding present for the youngest Lamar girl, Meghan, but it had devolved into screaming so quickly. Eric thinks he yelled first, but he couldn’t be sure. Everything felt hazy and muddled in his head.

The only thing that was certain was that they had fought about Mama. Coach accused Eric of being selfish — never visiting, never calling, breaking his mother’s heart with his unchristian behavior and stubbornness. Eric shot back, telling Coach _he_ was the selfish one. How many Bittle family functions did Suzanne plan and attend on a monthly basis, despite the family’s general rudeness and ungrateful attitude? And when did Coach ever make an effort with the Phelps sisters? Mama’s bridge group? The church fundraisers she cared so much about?

It was a stupid fight and Eric was almost certain he lost it, but he couldn’t handle being called selfish, not by Coach, not by someone who would never love Suzanne Bittle the way she loved him, the way she clearly didn’t love Eric.

He wasn’t entirely sure how he got to the aquarium, but now he sat in front of the large, round tank, watching bright schools of fish swim past. He’d remembered his wallet but not his phone when he’d stormed out of the aparmtent, and Eric felt fidgety without it. He wanted to talk to Jack or Jen or _someone_ who would give him a big hug and call his dad a dick. Instead, he stared at the fish, letting the repetition of their paths lull the screaming in his head to a white noise.

Maybe he _was_ selfish. He could’ve made more of an effort to get his mother to talk to him. He could go visit more often, smile at the family and neighbors who told him he was going to hell. Hell, he could’ve kept his mouth shut and stayed in the closet for far longer than he did. Eric could’ve sacrificed more out of love for his mother.

A voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Jack told him that being selfish had been the healthy choice in this situation, and Eric knew he was right. But it didn’t change the fact that his decisions — decisions of what was best for him and his life — drove off the person he once loved most in the world. If he hadn’t had his mother when the bullying got downright dangerous in middle school — well, Eric wasn’t sure he would’ve lived to see graduation. She had been the one good, constant force in his life, someone he made sure he would always come home to, despite how scared he was or how hard everything got.

The older he got, the less and less Eric understood his parents’ marriage. It felt so imbalanced, in love and respect and power, and he never could fathom why Mama would stay, especially now that Eric was grown and gone. Comfort, he supposed. Familiarity.

It wasn’t until a voice came over the speakers to announce that the aquarium was closing that Eric realized the time and remembered he’d promised to help Jack answer a few fan questions on Twitter. They were supposed to make a night of it, Eric was going to cook, while Jack brought the wine. Guilt welled in him and Eric hurried from the aquarium, all but sprinting to the T. By the time he arrived at his apartment, he was out of breath and more upset than he had been when he’d left.

He’d forgotten to lock his apartment, but nothing looked stolen or out of place. His phone was on the floor, and when he picked it up he had several missed calls, mostly from Jack, but also from Ford, Shitty, and Jen. Biting his lip, Eric hit the RETURN CALL button next to Jack’s name and waited as it rang.

Jack picked up almost immediately, voice low and gruff as he said, “Bittle, is that you? Are you okay? Where are you?”

Eric was struck speechless for a moment. Taking a deep breath, he said, “I’m at my apartment, Jack, I’m sorry I missed dinner-”

“I’ll be there in five,” was all Jack said before he hung up. Eric stared down at the phone in shock, slowly setting it down on his coffee table. He’d call the others later, after Jack arrived.

Eric nervously puttered around his apartment, tidying the bookshelf and moving dishes to the sink. He hoped Jack wasn’t too mad. Eric wasn’t a generally flaky person, and he’d never blown Jack off like this before. Jack was probably more worried than mad, he rationalized with himself. He probably thought Eric had gotten sick or held up. Things would be fine.

“ _Bittle_.”

The door of Eric’s apartment swung open and Jack raced through, gasping for breath. Eric didn't have a chance to react before he was pulled into a large bear hug, squished up against Jack’s chest almost uncomfortably tight. He could hear the wild pounding of Jack’s heart against his ear, and guilt sank deep in Eric’s gut.

“I came over like we’d planned and your door was open but you were gone and your _phone was on the floor_ and I just assumed the worst immediately so I called everyone we know and _thank God you’re okay.”_

Eric returned the hug, wrapping his arms around Jack’s waist and holding on. “Jack, I’m so sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I had a fight with my dad and forgot about our plans and stormed out like a child to go pout. I'm so, so sorry.”

He could feel Jack’s lips and nose press against his head, could feel the shaking in Jack’s arms as he tightened his grip. “You're okay. You're okay and I overreacted and you're _okay.”_

“I am,” Eric whispered. “I'm sorry.”

Jack pulled back, face a weird mixture of sheepish and relieved. His eyes were red, like he hadn't blinked enough or had been holding back tears. “I should text everyone, tell them you're home. They're all probably freaked out, I shouldn't have called so many people, I wanted to call the police but Ford talked me out of it-”

Eric leaned forward and kissed Jack, soft and chaste and brief. It wasn't passionate or frantic or a bid for more; he knew Jack would recognize it as the _thank you_ it was, the _I love you, too._

“You're the most important person in my life,” Jack whispered as they parted. “I just...the thought of losing you scared me more than anything.”

At a loss for words, Eric pushed Jack back onto the couch, wrapping his arms and legs around him.  Jack held on tight, hands grasping at Eric’s rib cage for purchase. They were both shaking, pressed together like the weight of the world was flooding in around them on all sides.

Eric knew the tremors in his body were relief, exhaustion, the last dregs of adrenaline...and something more. Want. Need.

He hitched his knees against Jack’s hips and pulled them closer together, until he could feel Jack growing as hard as he was. He pushed further, slow and agonizing, until Jack’s teeth and tongue were at his neck. He nipped the skin there and Eric saw stars.

They stayed wrapped up together even as Jack tugged off his shirt. They didn't kiss again, not just yet, but Jack latched his mouth to Eric’s collarbone the moment his shirt was opened, hands pulling Eric’s hips down against his own in a jerky, frantic motion.

Eric felt like a teenager again, dry humping on the couch, but he just needed to be closer to Jack, to touch Jack, to be be totally consumed by the look of love and panic and absolute pleasure in Jack’s eyes.

Jack reached up to tug Eric down into a kiss, wet and rough and desperate, and Eric’s vision whited out as he came in his pants, harder than he ever had in his life.

He heard rather than saw Jack come moments later, the both of them panting and lying boneless against each other.

They didn't speak. The post-coital haze seemed fragile and tenuous, like one wrong word could shatter everything. Eric very tentatively tucked his head against Jack’s neck, focusing on the way their chests heaved together, hot and sticky. Everything smelled of sex and sweat and Jack’s deodorant, heavy and thick in the air. The only sound in the apartment, other than their labored breathing, was the dripping of the leaky kitchen faucet, ticking away like seconds on a clock.

Eventually, Jack pulled back to look at Eric, brushing back a few strands of hair that were plastered to his forehead. Eric closed his eyes at the touch, letting Jack lean in slowly to kiss him, soft and hesitant.

Kissing Jack was nothing like Eric had dreamed when he was in school. Back then he'd spent endless, guilty nights fantasizing, dreaming up scenarios in Faber or the Haus kitchen: Jack hoisting him onto the table to completely ravish him; Jack tearing off his helmet during checking practice and pushing him up against the boards; Jack racing across campus in the rain to cup his face in those big, rough hands and kiss him senseless.

Now, though, here, Jack wasn't rough and dominating the way a hot-blooded, 20-year-old Bitty had imagined; he pressed his lips to Eric’s with the soft fervor of someone eating their favorite dessert, faltering between savoring the taste and devouring it whole. The skin around Jack’s lips was rough with stubble and chapped from the dry weather, but every kiss was warm and soft and tugged at something beneath Eric’s lungs.

The most surprising thing to Eric, though, was that Jack smiled in kissing. Gone were the days of his brooding, solemn captain; Jack’s teeth clacked against Eric’s as he huffed a small, joyous laugh, hands tracing patterns into small of Eric’s back. Eric thought he'd consider everything in life a competition — they both certainly tried to out-eat each other at their lunches — but Jack sucked on Eric’s bottom lip like he had all the time in the world to enjoy that little moment. It was a quiet, shattering, breathtaking realization.

“Do you want to take a shower?” Eric asked after he pulled his mouth free from Jack’s explorations.

“With you?” Jack asked, brushing his nose along the length of Eric’s cheek. “Or just in general?”

“With me,” Eric said. “Or in general, I just know that the cum in _my_ pants is starting to get really gross-”

Jack hoisted them both to their feet, shucking his jeans before they even got out of the living room. Eric took his hand, something he'd done before in quiet moments or drunkenly pushing through crowds, and it felt...the same. Normal. That thought alone quelled the anxiety building in his chest.

“My shower’s a little cramped,” Eric said as they got to the bathroom. “And I'm telling you right now we’re never having sex in there, it never ends well- oh, you've heard that story,” he added at Jack’s shit-eating grin. “But I think we’ll be able to squeeze your gigantic ass in there if we try hard enough.”

Jack just kept grinning in response, pulling off his ruined briefs to hang on the edge of the sink.

It had been a decade since Eric had seen Jack naked, glimpsed in little moments in Faber and the Haus, and he couldn't help but catalog the changes. His waist was thicker, though that was no surprise — he'd gained so much muscle mass alone his first year with the Falconers, he'd been almost unrecognizable when he visited Samwell that fall. But there was a healthy layer of fat now, as well, from age and his lunches with Eric, that covered the once-defined abs. His hair was darker and coarser, though perhaps he'd just stopped grooming it the way he had in college. His stretch marks were faded, less pronounced than they once had been, and he had several new scars that had not been there in the Faber dressing room. This man had been playing hockey for decades, and his body was a visual testament to it.

Showering with someone like this made Eric feel like a little kid again, crowded into the communal showers at the swimming pool, everyone still dressed in their swimsuits. It was entirely unsexual, just the two of them washing off and chatting about their days and splashing water in each other’s faces. Even when they kissed, it was brief and sweet and lazy, with no heat or urgency or extreme emotion. Jack groped Eric only once, just to make a joke about the Better Booty Bureau and its gift to mankind. Eric was so touched that Jack even remembered his weekly squats with Ransom that he didn't goose him in retaliation.

They fell asleep on separate sides of the bed that night. Eric was a belly-sleeper and a sprawler, whereas Jack curled into a ball on his side; neither was very conducive to cuddling, and after years of relationships come and gone they both knew this too well. Eric didn't even have to say anything to Jack about it; it was something they'd talked about long ago, casually, in passing, adding to the long list of things they knew about each other.

 

* * *

 

When Eric woke up, his face was two inches from Jack’s and he felt like he might throw up. He'd dry humped Jack Zimmermann on his couch last night. He’d showered with Jack Zimmermann last night. He’d slept in the same bed as Jack Zimmermann last night. This — this romance or casual sex or whatever it was they were doing — had the potential to destroy the most important relationship in his _life_. Eric wasn't sure he could handle losing Jack, the way he'd lost his mother, the way he'd grown apart from college friends, the way he might one day lose Jen and Connor and Ford. Losing Jack would destroy him, he was certain.

Closing his eyes and breathing deep, Eric thought about Jack’s panic the night before, the way he trembled in absolute relief to have Eric safe in his arms. Losing Eric wasn't on Jack’s to-do list either, that much was clear; he’d made it obvious that he'd fight to keep Eric by his side in any capacity. And maybe that was enough.

 _Fuck it,_ Eric thought. _That's more than enough. That's everything._

When he opened his eyes, Jack was watching him, gaze unfocused and smile goofy. It didn't seem that _he_ was going through any sort of inner turmoil over the previous night; the thought soothed Eric’s racing heart.

“Hey,” he mumbled, voice thick and slurred. “Your hair is funny.”

Eric didn't have to look to know his bedhead was probably ridiculous. He could see it mirrored in Jack’s own. “You sure know how to charm a man, Mr. Zimmermann.”

“Mhmm,” Jack said, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “I have a couple meetings today, but do you wanna grab dinner tonight?”

“I was gonna make something in the crockpot today for the blog,” Eric said, flopping back down on his pillow. “Gotta start testing out stews for fall. How does jambalaya with apple sausage sound?”

“Can it be turkey sausage?” Jack asked around a yawn. “Doctor says to cut back on red meat.”

“Right, you were saying that the other day,” Eric said, kicking himself for not remembering. “Of course. I should probably be doing healthier stuff anyways. My demographic’s getting older, too. I've already been researching Weight Watchers and Atkins, all those old people fad diets, because I get so many questions about points and all that crap.”

Jack made a vaguely disgruntled noise. “Do you need me to grab anything from the store while I'm out today?”

“No,” Eric said, reaching out trace a faint scar on Jack’s chin. “You know how I am about groceries, it's just easier for everyone if I go. Do you need any vitamins? I thought I saw you were out last week.”

“Ah, shit,” Jack laughed. “You're right, I keep forgetting. Yeah, I need a new bottle. And you're out of milk.”

“I don't know how you manage to drink all of my milk without me ever seeing you,” Eric grumbled, reaching for his phone to add vitamins and milk to his list, and to mark the apple sausage as turkey. “Do you sneak it in the middle of the night? When I'm in the bathroom?”

“When you're on Twitter,” Jack chirped, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes. “It's like you go into a trance. Makes it easy to steal your milk.”

“One day you're gonna face a social media crisis,” Eric threatened, sitting up so he could loom over Jack. “And I'm gonna sit aside and laugh at you.”

“We have a whole PR department,” Jack shot back, grinning up at him. “Some of them are young and spend even more time online than you. I think I'll survive.”

“After you retire, then,” Eric said. “You'll rue the day you mocked my Twitter obsession.”

Snorting with laughter, Jack reached up to pull Eric down against him, peppering his face with kisses. His morning breath was unfortunate, but Eric was laughing too hard to care.

“Need to go to my apartment,” Jack murmured as Eric’s lips trailed down his neck. “Have to change for my meetings.”

“You have a whole drawer of clothes here,” Eric reminded him. “How nice do you have to look?”

“It's no one outside of the organization, so not fancy or anything,” Jack said, voice hitching as Eric bit under his jaw. “GM, trainer, coaches…”

“If you don't mind looking casual,” Eric said, sliding his hands down Jack’s chest. “I know a better use of your time this morning.”

The smile Jack gave him was so blinding, Eric couldn't help but think, _yeah, this is worth the risk._

 

* * *

 

If this had been a movie, Eric was certain the whole world would've tilted on its axis after that night. The lighting would've grown soft and gold, the music would've swelled, and all of Eric’s fears and worries would've slipped away as he rode off into the sunset with Jack. Fade to black. Roll the credits.

As it were, things mostly stayed the same. Eric had coffee with Ford once a week. He talked to his mother on the rare occasions she answered his calls. He went out with his friends on the weekends and dragged Jack to restaurants he wanted to try and stressed about keeping his channel fun and relevant and profitable.

Now, though, when Jack slept over, no one took the couch. When Eric was feeling horny, he didn't have to scroll through Grindr or hit up a club; he could just give Jack a look and suddenly they were both naked. When Jack said something sweet or funny or vulnerable, Eric could just lean over and kiss him. It wasn't a change in their relationship, really, just an extension, an addition. Their physical intimacy now reflected their emotional relationship; despite his earlier panic, the evolution of it all felt natural.

It had been a while since Eric had woken up next to someone like this. Jack greeted him in the mornings with the goofiest bedhead and kisses along the back of his neck, a hand casually splayed across his ass. Eric felt no embarrassment wiping the drool from the corner of his mouth or placing Señor Bunny to the side as he straddled Jack in retaliation, because Jack had sleep crusted in the corners of his eyes and pillow lines on his face and neither of them cared. Eric was in love with Jack, of this he was certain, and for once he didn't harbor the fear that he wasn't loved just as fiercely in return. They were Jack and Eric; loving each other wholeheartedly and unconditionally was sort of their thing.

There were moments Eric could see a future with Jack, the two of them in the kitchen of some quaint, little house, children and dogs playing underfoot, framed jerseys in the living room and a video camera on a tripod in the corner and family photos scattered across all the flat surfaces. These moments scared Eric more than anything; these kinds of dreams had been the downfall of so many people he knew. Chasing the kids and the house and the matching wedding bands felt like playing with fire, and Eric tamped down those urges as soon as they arose.

Eric adored children, loved the idea of raising and shaping them, but gone were the days of dreaming of fatherhood. To be the best father he could be, Eric knew he'd want a co-parent by his side, and that started him down a dangerous path of marriage and lifelong commitment and settling into something familiar and potentially unhappy. But when he looked at Jack Zimmermann, Eric felt a comforting sense of security, felt a tenuous certainty that _this was it._ This was a forever sort of thing.

And, _Lord_ , if that didn’t scare him.

It was a good thing being around Jack made him feel brave. Because this — whatever this was, this beautiful, powerful thing between them — this was the most terrifying thing he’d ever faced.

It was also the most important, so Eric shook the anxiety from his thoughts and held tightly onto Jack’s hand. This was going to last; he'd make sure of it.

 

* * *

 

Ransom’s wedding was far more fun than Shitty’s.

Maybe it was just that Eric was in a happier place, or maybe it was because Ransom’s huge extended family was, as a whole, fun and friendly and totally opposite of Shitty and Kelly’s brood of WASPs. The reception was held in a hotel in Nyack, beautifully decorated for a beautiful bride. Eric thought Ransom’s doctor friends could all stand to pull their heads out of their own asses, but Iman’s friends were lively and the Samwell crew was as raucous as ever, so the party was already in full swing by the time dinner was served.

It was stunning, really, catching up with the hockey team; Eric had not realized how many of them were engaged. Lardo, Holster, and Chowder all had fiancés with them as their dates, and Dex, though at the reception alone, wore a wedding band. Nursey kept introducing a woman, Isla, as his partner, but the way they both had stared wistfully at Ransom and Iman during the ceremony told Eric he would probably be calling her his wife soon.

“Goodness,” he said to Lardo as he sipped on his champagne. “Everyone’s got wedding fever — soon there's gonna be a thousand little baby Wellies running around, eh?”

Lardo smirked at him for his Canadian-ism and Jack laughed. “Guess our clocks are ticking, Bits. What about you? Anyone out there who’ll manage to lock down our favorite baker in the holiest of matrimony?”

Before Eric could deflect, Jack spoke. “Oh, I doubt it. Bittle doesn't believe in marriage.”

Eric didn't hear the rest of the conversation. Jack wasn't out, would probably never officially come out, so it wasn't unexpected that their old teammates couldn't see the _thing_ between him and Eric. But Eric didn't even know what this thing was. They never used the b-word, never called their outings dates or changed their statuses on Facebook. The love between them was private and all-encompassing and labeling it scared Eric more than anything. But now he knew Jack never expected to marry him and tears were threatening to mask his vision entirely.

Lardo got up to dance with Kayla, her fiancé, and Jack must have noticed the blotchiness in Eric’s cheeks or the way he was blinking back tears, because he pulled them both to their feet and shepherded Eric into the hallway off the side of the dance hall.

“Bits?” He asked quietly. “Eric, what's wrong?”

Eric sniffed, wiping at his eyes. “I'd get married for you,” he said. “If it's what you want, I'd marry you. I love you more than anything, _far_ more than I hate the idea of marriage.”

Jack leaned over to kiss his forehead, then pulled back to dab at Eric’s wet cheeks with his sleeve. “Bittle, I don't care about getting married. Maybe one day, just so we could file taxes jointly and possibly — God forbid — make decisions for each other in the hospital. There are actual benefits of marriage that we might want one day, but settling down isn't my goal, just like it isn't yours. I just want to spend the rest of my life with you, and for you to want to spend the rest of your life with me.”

“I'm being silly, aren't I?” Eric asked with a watery laugh. “I just...I'm scared, Jack. All of this scares me. I could die happy the way things are now. But things change. All life is is a series of changes.”

Jack settled his hands on Eric’s hips, leaning their foreheads together. “It's also a series of happy moments. That's the important part. The pain and change and loss is inevitable, but the joy makes it worthwhile. _You_ make my life worthwhile. You and my parents and hockey and our friends and Teji’s take-out nights and when you drag me to swim in frigid water because you're having a quarter-life crisis…”

Eric laughed again. “I'm sorry for freaking out on you.”

“Don't be,” Jack said. “I like when you tell me how you're feeling. Even if I can't do much to help.”

“You always help,” Eric said, standing on his tiptoes to kiss Jack again and again and again. “Because you know me.”

“More and more every day,” Jack said with a soft smile. “Do you want to dance? Or we could get out of here…?”

Eric kissed him again, a little dirtier, and took his hand. “Let’s show those boring marrieds how they get down at the Zimmermann Old Folks’ Home.”

Jack rolled his eyes and laughed, letting Eric drag him into the middle of the dance floor. Over the speakers, an old Beyoncé song came on, and Eric felt both a decade younger and a hundred years wiser, wrapped up in the arms of the man he loved with his whole heart.

It was enough.

It was everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr at [eve-baird. ](http://eve-baird.tumblr.com/)
> 
> If you like my writing, please check out my [new, original project. ](http://thediscourtknife.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> if it seems like there's way too much written about the food in this fic, it's because there IS. I've been having Health Issues and my diet’s been super restricted and basically o feel sick all the time but I'm also super hungry all the time and i really miss things like dairy and bread and raw vegetables. ANYWAY enjoy a list of all the foods i can't eat until I'm in remission and even them mayhe not and also an sort of angsty-ish slow burn au of these two idiot hockey players. in love
> 
> Part II coming soon. Mostly written, just needs editing.
> 
> My[ tumblr ](http://eve-baird.tumblr.com/)and [my new project that I hope you'll check out! ](http://thediscourtknife.tumblr.com/)


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